


Lines of Silver and Gold

by hermitknut



Category: Realm of the Elderlings - Robin Hobb
Genre: F/M, Gen, Next Generation, Other, assassin's fate disregarded, everyone needs the genre appropriate version of therapy goddamnit and I will give it to them, fool's assassin only vaguely accounted for, fool's quest disregarded, next generation characters that don't really match the canon but screw that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2019-11-01 06:51:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17862428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hermitknut/pseuds/hermitknut
Summary: Fitz and Fool are coming slowly into peace; but a new generation of Farseers are growing up, and their time is on its way. This was written for NaNoWriMo 2014, and follows on from the end of Fool’s Assassin. Most of it was created before FA was published, so the events of FA are largely brushed over. Formerly posted in The Scribe's Pillar as "Generations".





	1. Returning

Buckkeep was silent. It was not late enough for it to be the pre-dawn hours – those would have been filled with the quiet bustling of servants, anyway. The party approaching the keep split into two groups before they were in view of the gate.

The first group was stopped just long enough for the King of the Six Duchies to pull his hood back and be granted surprised but obliging entry. They were not greeted by servants, but a younger guardsman was sent to rouse the stable-boys to take the horses.

The second group left the path after a while, as well as their horses. They made their way around the keep, and through a gap in the wall that few knew existed. When they reached the cobwebby passages between the walls, they split off again.

Fitz carried Bee in his arms. It had been a long journey, and even someone as small as Bee was not light after all that time. But he could not bring himself to let go of her; not just yet.

He separated from Riddle at an entrance to one of the upper corridors, and carried Bee along to their rooms. She stirred a little as he settled her into the bed and carefully pulled himself away, but did not wake.

He sat down in a chair beside the bed and waited for the sun to rise.

~

Three days passed, slowly.

Dutiful sat back in his chair, pressing his palms to his eyes and forehead in a vague effort to get his thoughts in order. It did not work. He half-opened his eyes again and looked at the scattering of papers on his desk, and then glanced at the sky – it was late, and the moon was out. Bed beckoned, and he would need to be up at dawn. As he stood and tidied away the day’s work, his thoughts wandered to Fitz and Lady Bee.

His cousin was not happy staying here in the keep, Dutiful knew. Most of the keep knew, he corrected himself. One glance at Holder Tom’s darkened, weary expression was enough to guess that the man was discontented. He didn’t even need to say anything. And Lady Bee spoke to no one, but either moved to the furthest corner of the room from her visitors and ignored them or all but clung to her father, silent. Dutiful sighed as he shut his drawer of inks. It was hard to know what to make of her. The girl was ten years old, surely old enough to interact with her elders and peers. Lady Nettle had described her as simple, but Fitz’s quiet correction had had something in it. Parents could be biased, of course – Dutiful took a moment to ruefully recall his youngest son’s penchant for mischief and his own reluctance to punish him for it – but the way Fitz spoke…

_Fitz._ He knew he needed to talk to him. Chade and his mother were pushing for it, but Dutiful had held them off. Fitz had nearly lost his daughter; Bee was obviously still struggling with it. There was no need to push them too fast. Besides, he already knew what Fitz’s answer would be.

He wouldn’t stay at Buckkeep. Chade and Dutiful’s mother – and Lady Nettle and Riddle too, for that matter, and there was another pair of people that needed thinking about and when would he have time to do that? – seemed to think that Lady Bee’s abduction would force Fitz’s hand. Surely, they had posited, he would see that Withywoods was not safe enough, not secure enough. He would see that life would be better for both himself and his daughter here. But there had been an edge to their discussion that Dutiful had recognised – a sort of anticipation of disappointment. Fitz was known to be stubborn on the matter. He wouldn’t come around, even now. He’d refuse to stay at Buckkeep, regardless of what was offered or explained or demanded. And Dutiful very much doubted he would allow Lady Bee to be separated from him to do so while he returned to Withywoods. And yet the conversation had to be had.

And what would happen then? Fitz was obstinate. Nettle was obstinate. Chade was insistent. And they all wanted different things. Someone, or several someones, was going to be extremely angry at the end of all this.

Dutiful nodded to the man on the door and entered the King’s chambers. It was late, but there were a few candles still lit and the sound of movement from the bedchamber…

“You work very late when I am not here.”

Elliania leant against the doorframe, her hair down, the shawl he had given her years ago wrapped around her shoulders. Dutiful went to her at once.

“I did not realise you had returned – we did not expect you until tomorrow,” he said softly. “If I’d have known –”

“- it would not have been as pleasant a surprise,” she concluded for him, “though perhaps I would not have had to wait so long.” She reached up and ran her hands through his hair as he gathered her into his arms.

“I missed you,” he said into her dark hair, and felt her slight laugh against his chest. “The boys are back too, I take it?”

“Mm,” she said. “Exhausted. It was late, you were working; I sent them to their chambers and to bed. You’d think they’d be old enough not to wear themselves out quite so much by now.”

“Mm.”

“We made some good ties over there while I visited, I’ll go through it with you tomorrow.”

“Mm.”

“The messenger said you had some family trouble to deal with – all done?”

“Mm.”

“Dutiful.”

He sighed and pulled back so that he could meet her eyes, his expression reluctant. She smiled at him but pressed the question.

“Family trouble? You’re only that vague when it involves…” she trailed off. Dutiful closed his eyes briefly and nodded.

“Fitz and Bee are both here for the moment,” he said. “And Lord Golden has returned, though he’s badly hurt.”

Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to ask more, but closed it again at Dutiful’s expression.

“Explain tomorrow, then,” she said. Dutiful nodded gratefully, and went to snuff the candles.

~

“I can’t see how –”

“That may be so, but if we don’t –”

“It’s a delicate situation,” Dutiful spoke over the babble of voices at the table. “Perhaps we should give ourselves some time to reflect.” He waited until the rest of the council had nodded in agreement, and then dismissed them.

“That went better than expected,” Chade said softly as he followed Dutiful out of the room and along the corridor. Dutiful gave a brief nod, but did not answer. The matter of trading rights across the Duchies was important, but in its own way it was simple. Every duchy wanted something; Dutiful usually knew what it was, either from Chade’s careful curiosity or simple Duchian forthrightness; he worked out a pattern that meant everyone got at least part of what they wanted. The matter of Fitz and Bee was not simple, and it was still bothering him. If he was honest, it had been bothering him for a long time.

There just seemed no way to settle matters – no matter what they offered or what they did, the man still ended up dissatisfied, sooner or later. Dutiful could not help but feel a twinge of annoyance at Fitz sometimes; the man had everything he wanted, or the ability to get it. Well. Within reason. And of course he had been through a lot. And losing Lady Molly… Dutiful felt his mouth dry a little as he thought of losing Elliania. He was being unfair to Fitz, and he knew it. But it did not seem that there was any way to be _fair_ to him, and how could you deal with someone like that?

Dutiful carefully contained his frustrations and sealed his thoughts from the skill as he joined Lady Nettle in his study. Chade followed him in; Dutiful was surprised to see that his mother and Elliania were there too as well Riddle, politely distanced from Nettle as though it was not obvious anyway. Very well, then.

He made sure the door was shut behind him, and then cleared his throat.

“Well,” he said. “I’ve sent a message to Fitz – we’ll meet this afternoon. Lady Nettle, I understand you were given some information on the current state of Withywoods; I’m sure Fitz and Lady Bee will want to know –”

He stopped at the sound from the corner. It was one of those sounds that doesn’t have a name; it was something that wasn’t quite a laugh, more of a soft scoff. He turned.

“Lord Golden, I didn’t see you there, my apologies.” Dutiful swallowed.

“Understandable.”

The man was curled up on a soft chair in the shadows beside the fire. Warmth, but little light, Dutiful realised. He licked his lips, mouth dry – he remembered Lord Golden from when he had been a prince, and it was hard to adjust to how he was now. The man by the fire was ravaged, exhausted; Dutiful knew that he had been resting for over a month but he somehow did not look much better than he had. It was hard to look at him. Dutiful swallowed again and turned back the others.

“As I was saying; Nettle, if you could pass that information on to me so that I have it when I speak with Fitz? Just so that he knows where everything stands, he might be more comfortable with the idea of staying here if he –”

Again, that soft little sceptical sound from besides the fireplace. Dutiful saw Chade’s expression twist disapprovingly and shook his head.

“Lord Golden, was there something you wanted?” he asked. He kept his tone polite, but allowed there to be a thread of sternness in it – recovering or not, the man was still being rude.

By the fireplace, the figure tilted his head a moment and then leant forward so that he was visible. Dutiful almost felt Elliania’s indrawn breath rather than heard it. He suppressed his own reaction. He had nothing against Lord Golden of course, but the level of damage done to him was uncomfortable to look at. More uncanny was the way he had of looking at you as though he could still see you. Blind eyes should not be that direct.

There was a pause before he spoke.

“I was just wondering – it’s soon to be your name day, isn’t it?” he asked, his milky-grey eyes on Dutiful. His voice was light, innocuous. Dutiful glanced around at the others, then turned back.

“Um, yes. Next month. Why –”

“You know there’s a custom of gift-giving on name-days – in the south, I mean,” Lord Golden said. Dutiful could feel the room relax; Lord Golden was tired, and changing the subject. Perhaps without even realising he had been rude. There was no need for anyone to take offense.

“I did know that, yes,” he replied, smiling softly. “A nice tradition.”

Lord Golden nodded, and then bit his lip.

“So – well, it seems a silly thing to ask, but would you mind if I gave you something for your name day? I’ve come to rather like the custom, and I thought of something just the other day that would be perfect for you.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly, a little shyly.

Dutiful smiled again without thinking, not knowing where this had come from but glad to have something pleasant to discuss today.

“That would – well, of course you don’t need to, but if you would like to then…” he faded off and the others laughed a little. Lord Golden grinned in return.

“Good. I thought I’d get you a hunting cat.”

The room froze. Dutiful felt his heart hammering suddenly as pieces of his princely escapade flickered through his mind. Quickly he assessed the room; Chade and his mother both knew, Elliania as well; Nettle and Riddle did not, but they could be trusted not to pry. He stared at Lord Golden, trying to pull words together that would clarify what must have been misspoken –

“A hunting cat, you know. You don’t have one. They’re quite the pet to have these days I understand, quite the fashion. And fascinating creatures. Would it be a good gift?”

Dutiful swallowed, his throat painfully dry, wanting to answer but at the same time afraid that all that would come out would be the words _no no no no no no no_

“I mean, I personally thought it would suit you. You seem the type.”

In the corner of his eye, Dutiful saw Nettle exchange a glance with Riddle. They knew there was more to this, but they wouldn’t ask. Good.

“Now, the reason I mention it is because there are several different breeds, and I wasn’t sure which one –”

“Fool, enough.”

Dutiful broke away from staring at Lord Golden when his mother spoke and focused his eyes on the mantelpiece, trying to steady his breathing. There was a pause.

“You don’t want one, then?” Lord Golden asked, and there was something in his light, innocent tone that was made of ice. Dutiful looked at him again and managed to find a little of his voice.

“No, thank you.” The words were dry and brittle, almost toneless. He watched as Lord Golden tilted his head to one side as though surprised.

“Really? Are you sure?” the man replied. “I know you’ve had a bad experience, but it’s hardly likely to happen again, is it? Outright ridiculous for you to think so. Surely you trust _me_ , after all?” The silence stretched out a few moments, and then Lord Golden sighed.

“Very well then,” he continued sceptically. “If you’re certain, I suppose I can’t force you. But I still think you’re being ridiculous. I tell you what, if you won’t allow me to buy _you_ a hunting cat, how about I get one for the young Prince Prosper?”

Dutiful heard his mother take in a breath as though to speak but he stepped forward almost convulsively – at the same time, Lord Golden stood upright. He did not move as fluidly as he once had, but he nevertheless managed to stand eye-to-eye with the speechless Dutiful. All the lightness had dropped from his voice and it was sharp and quiet.

“All that anger you’re feeling, Dutiful Farseer? All that irrational fury, that hurt, that searing pain, that regret and fear and all that _affront_?” He gave a humourless smile. “That is how you make Fitz feel every time you ask him to come live at Buckkeep again. For Bee to live at Buckkeep again.”

Dutiful blinked. Lord Golden turned his head towards the fire, closing his eyes.

“I – I don’t understand,” he said, trying to take back control of the conversation.

“No, you don’t,” Lord Golden replied mirthlessly. “But you should.”

Very carefully, he stretched out one arm to the fire’s warmth.

“You think you’re being kind, don’t you?” he said softly. “You don’t order him about anymore. You _ask_. You _allow._ But it’s all a lie, and the only person it benefits is you.” He turned his head back and opened his eyes, again giving the illusion that he was staring straight at Dutiful. “You get to feel as though you’re generous and kind for just asking him for something rather than ordering him – but what’s the point if you won’t take no for an answer anyway? Fitz can see through that, anyone could if they wished to. You might not give him an order but that doesn’t mean you have any respect for his decision. Otherwise you wouldn’t keep – aha – _badgering_ him about it.” He winced and swapped his hands, allowing the other one the warmth.

The rest of the room was silent. Dutiful was still trying to control the surge of memories and emotions that had been provoked, but he was also listening carefully.

“Of course,” Lord Golden continued, “you could just order him to stay. But you won’t, because you know he doesn’t want to. Which is very, very interesting, isn’t it? Why won’t you give the order? Shall I tell you?” The mirthless smile again. “Because a part of you is afraid that he’ll leave. That if you push him too far he’ll just take Bee and leave. You know the thought has crossed his mind. But instead of actually dealing with the problem, you’re just going to continue pretending to care about his opinion and hoping he doesn’t notice because that might be just enough to push him to leave as well. You don’t know him anymore. None of you do, out of laziness or obstinacy or carelessness… or fear.” His smile dropped. “And it really unsettles you. And so you all pass stories amongst yourselves and you treat him like a wild animal but you condescend to pretend you’re treating him like a man and you don’t think he’s noticed that by now and you still think he should trust you?”

Another pause; a deep, steady breath. Then the smile was back, and bright.

“I’m afraid I’ve rather tired myself out,” said Lord Golden sweetly. “I think I shall retire to my rooms.” The entrance to the secret corridors was by the fireplace and he made his way to it carefully, clicking the door open and slipping through the opening. “Enjoy your meeting with Fitz, Dutiful,” his voice called back. “I’m sure it will go _swimmingly._ ”

And then he was gone.

“Dutiful –”

“My lord perhaps -”

“Go.” Dutiful spoke the word flatly, cutting across his mother’s concern and Lord Chade’s disapproval. “We all have work to be doing. We can finish this meeting another day.”

He did not move as the others left. When the door had closed he looked around to see that only Elliania had remained; she came over to him and pulled him carefully into her arms. He was trembling slightly, but he wasn’t sure if it was present anger or remembered fear. His wife said nothing, and he was glad; then he sighed.

“I still need to talk to Fitz this afternoon,” he said. He had resigned himself to the conversation, knowing that it would not go smoothly, but now it felt like some kind of impending doom.

“Don’t.”

“What?”

Elliania sighed and pulled back a little to look at him.

“Don’t see him today,” she said. “Leave it until tomorrow. Or do you really think you know what you want to say to him now?”

Dutiful felt his affront from earlier grow again.

“I don’t see why I should let Lord Golden’s temper change my –” He stopped when Elliania put a finger to his lips, and raised his eyebrows at her.

“Now you sound like Chade,” she said reproachfully, smiling a little. Dutiful deflated.

“Eda, _no_ ,” he muttered and Elliania giggled.

“Hush, you know he’s a good advisor,” she said, but there was amusement in her voice.

“Yes, but what he’s best at is being Chade – I don’t think I need to help him,” he said wryly, then grew sombre again. “Today or tomorrow, and whatever I say, I still need to talk to Fitz. And you’re right, I don’t know what I should say.”

“Hm. Sleep on it,” Elliania advised. “Speak to him tomorrow. And…” she hesitated, considering her words before continuing. “I think you should consider what Lord Golden said. He knows Fitz well.”

“He was angry.”

“That does not mean he was wrong,” she said quietly. Dutiful nodded. Elliania had been very careful about getting involved with the politics of the Six Duchies when she had first arrived as his wife, but she had gradually become indispensible. She was absolutely clear on her opinion, and suffered no one’s disapproval, but she treated things with a surprising delicacy. He placed an immense value on her ability to view things in a way that eluded him.

He kissed her on the forehead.

“I’ll send a runner to Holder Tom, then. And we’ll meet tomorrow. Will you join me for lunch, my lady?”

Elliania linked arms with him.

“I will, my lord,” she said.

~

At noon the following day, Dutiful sat in the council chambers waiting. The others were due at any moment. He felt as though he was making a momentous decision this day, and wished simultaneously that the others would turn up quickly so that he could get it done before he changed his mind and that they would all somehow forget to come so that he could have another day to consider it.

He pulled in a steady breath and let it out slowly. He’d lain awake long into the night, eventually giving up on sleep and slipping out of his bedchamber to sit at his desk. Lord Golden’s words echoed in his head. The man had a talent for hitting sore spots. Dutiful had always found it helpful to think things through, out-loud or on paper; he splattered ink in his tiredness, trying to apply Lord Golden’s words to his knowledge of Fitz, Fitz’s behaviour to what Dutiful knew was best, Elliania’s advice and Chade’s advice and Nettle’s decisions about her sister…

And as the sun had come up, he had come to his conclusion. He had confirmed it later that morning, looking through some of Chade’s old papers. Well. It was drastic. And undoubtedly it would not meet with universal approval. As the door swung open to admit the group who had been in his study the night before (minus Lord Golden and adding Fitz and the Lady Bee, looking small and unhappy in her new blue dress), Dutiful smothered a small, bitter laugh. At least his decision was evenly balanced in that regard, he thought – it was guaranteed that everyone in the room would dislike at least part of it.

“Thank you all for coming together,” he said, standing, “I know many of you are busy.” Their nods said the same thing as always: that he was the king, and he could override their busyness whenever he liked, but it was good of him to respect that.

Chade took up position to Dutiful’s left, and Kettricken and Elliania were closer to his right; Lady Nettle stood off to the right. Riddle was on the door. And in front of him stood FitzChivalry Farseer, his expression a guardsman’s careful neutral, his little daughter behind him in a way that Dutiful would have struggled not to call ‘skulking’. Lady Bee was staring at some point on the floor, but every now and then her eyes flickered as though keeping track of the others in the room.

Dutiful took a deep breath, and then began to speak.

“I’ve been considering a lot of different advice,” he began, “and I have come to a decision. The way certain matters are handled – and have been handled for a long time – is going to change.” He allowed himself a small, rueful smile. “There are people here who are going to be frustrated with these changes, even angry. But I will say now that this is my final decision, and while I will hear your complaints the chance is very small that I will act upon them.”

This more for Chade and Nettle’s benefit than anyone else, but Dutiful thought he saw Fitz brace himself slightly, his expression blank as iron.

“FitzChivalry,” he said with practiced calm. “In three days, if that timeframe is acceptable to you, you and Lady Bee will return to Withywoods where you will reside. This is still your desire, I presume?” Dutiful waited for the response.

“Yes, my lord.” Blank, formal and polite.

“Good. Riddle.”

Riddle looked slightly startled to be addressed; he had been observing Lady Nettle, who Dutiful had not looked around at yet as he was half-convinced that there would be steam coming from her ears.

“My lord?”

“You are to arrange the security for Fitz and Lady Bee’s journey back as well as, more permanently, the security of Withywoods itself. I will leave to your expertise decisions about the scale of it and how much should be integrated into the household staff, and I understand some of those decisions will have to be delayed until you can visit Withywoods yourself. I would recommend, therefore, that you travel with Fitz and Lady Bee initially.” Dutiful paused to give Riddle a moment to digest this, and then continued. “I’m sure you understand that it will need to be balanced between providing a safe environment and not drawing unnecessary attention to Holder Tom and his daughter. You may draw from the Buckkeep guard or elsewhere, the matter is up to you – but there is one limit.” Fitz’s eyes were on him, Dutiful knew, but he didn’t look away from Riddle. “Of the people you choose, and on point of fact _anyone_ in the Withywoods household: not a single one of them should in any way belong to Lord Chade.” He dropped the words slowly and clearly into place, so that they could not be mistaken. Riddle’s eyes flicked briefly to Lord Chade and then he nodded.

“I understand, my lord.”

“Good.” Dutiful took a steadying breath and held his skill-walls tighter – even so, he could feel Lord Chade’s anger and confusion seeping through a little. He turned back to Fitz.

“Lord FitzChivalry. A long time ago, you had an agreement with our grandfather.”

The silence in the room seemed to stiffen. Fitz’s carefully neutral expression had a hint of curiosity in it as he gave a short nod and Dutiful could feel the eyes of seven people on him.

“King Shrewd promised to provide for you. He did not actually record anything in terms of his demands of you, save that you be his.” Dutiful had spent an instructive hour that morning in Chade’s records looking for that. He continued a little more gently. “The man you swore to is long dead. And yet you have reaffirmed your loyalty again and again. For that, we are grateful – and for that, we owe you. Not the other way around.” Dutiful straightened his shoulders, watching his cousin’s expression carefully. “Due to the circumstances of the last few decades, and the actions of those involved, your position with regards to this family and this throne has become increasingly blurred. As of today, that will end. You will return to Withywoods as Lady Nettle’s Holder. That position provides you with shelter and the means to keep yourself and Lady Bee. However, as per your original agreement with King Shrewd, the throne will continue to pay you a small allowance. This is to ensure that you are provided for should your circumstances change. If you wish to discuss the amount, I will be open to the conversation. Lady Bee, too, from today will be have set aside for her a small amount. It will be given to you to look after on her behalf until she is old enough. This is an extension of your agreement with Shrewd; I do not consider you fully provided for if I do not account for your daughter.”

Dutiful was glad he had written most of that down earlier, to make sure it was fair. Slightly uncomfortable from standing absolutely still and willing himself not to stiffen up entirely, he took a step forward. His eyes still met Fitz’s. His cousin’s expression was very still; a soldier waiting for orders. Dutiful gathered himself and laid out the rest of his decision.

“From this point on, that will be your only formal contact with the throne,” he said calmly. “There will be no more favours, no more quick conferences, no more exceptions to the rule; equally, we will not make any demands of you save for what I tell you of here and now. This does not mean that you cannot ask for things that you need or want; it means that asking will no longer be an informal matter or a series of hopeful hints. Your contact with the throne for such matters will be directly to me, either by skill or written message or personal contact as is appropriate. Translation work for Lord Chade,” here he tilted his head slightly to include Chade in his address without taking his eyes off of Fitz, “will be requested and returned through me, and you will be paid for it as befits any man with such an ability. As such, you will have the freedom to refuse the work if you wish.”

He willed himself not to glance over at Elliania. Fitz had not yet nodded or confirmed his agreement, but perhaps he knew that Dutiful was not yet finished.

“I have considered this, Lord FitzChivalry,” he continued steadily, “and today I give you my word. Lady Bee and yourself will not at any point by any representative or power of the throne of the Six Duchies, be forced to separate against your will. Nor will we, aside from at your request, interfere in her education or attempt to influence her life until it is agreed by you both that she is of an age at which she is free to capably make those decisions.”

“Ki-” Lady Nettle didn’t even get the beginning of his title out before she stopped herself. Dutiful suspected Elliania had caught her eye, and was grateful. Fitz’s expression was not entirely neutral anymore; he was wary, waiting for the catch. Dutiful gave it to him.

“I will be visiting Withywoods and regular intervals, Lord FitzChivalry,” he said. “Lord Chade, I will need you to arrange a suitable reason for me to visit regularly and, to begin with at least, without Lady Nettle.” He gave those instructions without turning, trying to project confidence in his words, and continued to watch Fitz. “I will not demand that you use the Skill. I accept your unwillingness. But you are still in possession of a wealth of knowledge and experience that we cannot ignore. The purpose of our meetings will be to discuss this, as well as to provide you with a regular opportunity to discuss any issues you have with the terms I have set out. These terms may change in the future, but only with your willing consent.”

He took another step forward; he and Fitz were now in arm’s reach of each other.

“I make this a formal arrangement,” he said. “And these are my terms. Do you accept them?”

There was a long, long pause. A part of Dutiful quietly wondered how to respond if Fitz said no. But then Fitz glanced down at his daughter for a moment, then back up to Dutiful.

“I accept them, my lord,” he said softly. Dutiful nodded. Then he turned away, moving back to speak to the entire room and contriving to not look at anyone directly without, he hoped, appearing to fear their reactions.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said formally. “Lord Chade, Master Riddle, you have your tasks; Lord FitzChivalry, Lady Bee, I’m sure you have preparations to make for your departure. If anyone wishes to raise anything regarding this meeting with me, I will be in my study later this afternoon. I’m afraid I have a lunch with the Duchess of Rippon to attend to first.”

The others began to move, but it was Fitz who surprised him. He gave Dutiful a formal bow, his face back to neutral – and then looked at Lady Bee. Dutiful realised suddenly that she was staring at him; but when he went to meet her eyes, her gaze flickered away.

“Come along, Bee,” Fitz murmured, and the two of them exited first. The others followed, but none seemed eager to catch up. Elliania joined him at the door and he gave her his arm as they made their way along the corridors. When they were separated from the others by a reasonable distance, she spoke softly.

“Interesting decision. Lord Chade and Lady Nettle will be displeased, of course, but you will have anticipated that.”

Dutiful nodded. Chade had gone quiet but he could feel Nettle’s icy disapproval on the edge of his mind.

“I will have to deal with both of them later today, you can be certain,” he said. “But I believe this is the right decision. Tom cannot continue to be left off to one side and buffeted about. I have to make the lines clear.”

“I agree.”

There was a comfortable pause, and Dutiful felt the warmth of knowing that Elliania, at least, would support his decision even if others did not.

“What of Lord Golden?” she asked quietly after a moment.

Dutiful let out a breath.

“I’m not sure. I suspect he’ll do whatever he likes regardless of what I say,” he said ruefully. “But I anticipate that he will go to Withywoods, to be near Tom. As soon as he is recovered. I know that the healers were hoping to help him more with Tom’s help – if they can do that before Tom leaves, and then he can recover here before joining him at Withy…”

He broke off as they approached the hall, and prepared to greet the Duchess of Rippon, putting all thoughts of Fitz to the back of his mind for now.

~

Chade’s old room was warm and silent, save for the crackle of the fire. Fitz sat opposite Beloved by the fireplace, having left Bee asleep in her room almost an hour ago. Beloved had asked about his meeting with Dutiful, and after Fitz had explained the two of them had fallen silent for a time.

“Are you ready for more Skill-healing tomorrow?” Fitz asked quietly after a while.

Beloved gave a small smile.

“Hardly. But yes, I suppose.” The answer sounded less than enthused, and they both knew why; the healers had expressed that they could not return Beloved’s sight. Tomorrow’s healing would remove some of the poison, and hopefully undo some of the more serious damage to joints and muscles. Then it was expected that Beloved would spend a month or so recovering.

“I’m sorry that I can’t stay,” Fitz said quietly.

“I understand.”

“I know, but… still.”

Beloved nodded, and they were both quiet again for a few minutes.

“When you recover, you would be welcome in Withywoods,” Fitz said. There was an edge of nervousness to his voice. Beloved wished, for the weary thousandth time that day, to be able to see Fitz’s expression.

“I would like that.”

Another pause. Beloved, after a moment more’s consideration, voiced a thought that had preoccupied them for some time.

“I… will need to decide who I am to be,” they said carefully. Truthfully, it was more complex than that, but this was all Fitz needed to understand in this moment. “I imagine Dutiful and Nettle and Chade will want to have some say in it.”

There was a slight pause before Fitz spoke, and Beloved imagined him shrugging.

“I think they might have some suggestions,” he conceded. “At least about… who you are to the family, to me. But you don’t have to follow them.”

Beloved gave a nod.

“I know. I’d like to hear their thoughts, though, at least on how best to infiltrate the Six Duchies again.” They tried to push a little humour into the last phrase, and Fitz laughed. After a moment he spoke again.

“I’m sure you’ll come to something that works.”

The silence stretched again. Beloved leaned back in Chade’s chair, eyes closed. Then a thought intruded.

“I will need a name,” they murmured, more to themself than to Fitz, listening to the crackling of the fire.

“Keppet.” Fitz’s voice was barely distinguishable from the flames. Beloved tilted their head.

“Mm?”

Beloved almost heard Fitz swallow before he repeated himself.

“Keppet,” he said again more clearly. “For a name.”

“Any particular reason?”

A pause.

“I… heard it once. It suits you.” Another pause, three heartbeats. “Sorry, don’t mind me. It’s late, I don’t know why I said that.”

Beloved could hear the deflection in Fitz’s voice, but did not say anything. After a few more minutes, Fitz stood from his chair.

“I’d best go back to my rooms and leave you to sleep,” he said.

“Sleep well,” Beloved murmured, and sat unmoving in silence as Fitz left. Once alone they considered the name, turning the syllables over in their head.

“Keppet,” Beloved said softly to themself. “Hm. Perhaps.”

Thoughts about why Fitz had thought of it went nowhere as sleep crept over Beloved like waves over the shore.

~

Three days later, Fitz sat with Bee in front of him on the horse he had hired in Buckkeep. Riddle would take it back for him later. The road stretched out ahead of them, and he knew that there were many things to consider – chiefly among them, Dutiful’s decision. But for now there was just the journey. They were returning home.


	2. Saltwater

Paragon Ludluck, Prince of the Pirate Isles, Son of Queen Etta of the Pirate Isles and ship’s boy of the Liveship Vivacia, gazed out over the sea. As much as he loved his work, he treasured these brief, quiet moments, up in the rigging away from everyone else. He loved how far he could see: in one direction the trees of the Rain Wilds rose up as though to compete with mountains, dense with soft mist and the strange flickers of birds; in the other direction it seemed as though the sea went on forever.

“Ludluck! Back on deck!”

The first mate’s voice was clear despite the muggy air, and Paragon scrambled to obey. He might be a prince, and heir to the throne of the Pirate Isles, but whilst on duty he was a ship’s boy – nothing more, nothing less. Wintrow – Captain Vestrit whilst Paragon was on duty – was very strict about that. Paragon liked it; it meant he could be friends with some of the crew in a way he knew his mother could not. The crew of the Vivacia were his family as much as Wintrow and his mother were. He sometimes wondered what it would be like when he had to take that step, and distance himself from everyone… but that was years off. He was only eleven – nearly twelve. Thoughts like that could wait.

His bare feet landed on the deck. He went about his tasks with enthusiasm, but he did not need to think too much as he went along. He had been ship’s boy on the Vivacia since he was nine, and even before that he had spent hours running after various members of the crew and watching them at their tasks. Instead he glanced at the view around the ship again. The weather was strange this far north. He knew from his lessons that the tropical Rain Wilds gave way to the odd dry deserts of Chalced (Paragon had never seen a desert – he could never quite work out what it would look like) and after that to the fields and snows of the barbaric northern countries – the Six Duchies, the Mountain Kingdom, and the Outislands. Paragon’s lessons never had much to say about them. He knew that the Six Duchies had light diplomatic contact with the Traders and Kelsingra and Jamaillia, sending occasional delegates, but from what his mother had said that was more of a show of courtesy than anything else. They weren’t too far apart for trade, but – how had Wintrow phrased it? There was too much Chalced in the way. Especially now that the civil war in Chalced was stirring up again.

That was why they were here on the Vivacia. The Traders had requested a meeting with Duchess Chassim, and Paragon’s mother had decided that they would join them too. Everyone suffered when one country went wrong. They were going to offer some help, Paragon understood – support, men and arms for Duchess Chassim to use to gain greater control over her country. He wondered if it would work.

Tilting his head to see over the railing without stopping what he was doing, Paragon peered ahead. The mist was getting heavier, particularly along the coastline. He wondered how far away they were, and how soon he would be called off duty to change into clothes more appropriate for a prince.

Behind the Vivacia were two ordinary woodships – the Marietta, the Pirate Isle’s second in command, and a Bingtown ship called the Startouched. Bingtown had declined to send a liveship, apparently as they were not willing to risk one in Chalcedean waters. Paragon had overheard one of the crew say that the Bingtown liveships had all refused to go.

Paragon squinted into the mist by the coast. It looked as though there was a shadow in it – a ship?

“Got a reason to be slacking, Ludluck?” came the voice of the second mate. It was stern – a ship’s boy was supposed to always be busy – but Paragon had earned a good reputation as a hard worker, and occasionally got the benefit of the doubt because of it. He pointed to the spot in the mist he’d been looking at.

“There, sir,” he said promptly. “Thought I saw something, like a shadow in the mist.”

Tern, the second mate, peered after his hand.

“Might be, lad. I’ll look into it. Now on with you.”

“Aye sir,” Paragon replied, already working again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tern still looking out over the water, and then turn and move towards the first mate on the other side of the ship. He concentrated on his work, and then he heard the cry.

“Ship to port!”

“Slow our approach.” The voice came from the foredeck, a clear call rather than a shout.

“Aye Captain!”

Paragon scrambled across the deck to the port side, the routine of responding to standard orders overtaking him. He wondered if Wintrow was watching him. Most of the time he was on duty, Captain Vestrit treated him exactly the same as he treated Tullen, the other ship’s boy – well, ship’s girl. But sometimes Paragon would look around and catch Wintrow observing him carefully before the captain turned away. He knew why. He would inherit his mother’s title, but if he wanted to be captain after Wintrow he would have to earn it. And the only way to do that was to work his way up the ranks like any other sailor.

“They’re coming in too fast, Wintrow!”

Vivacia’s voice always seemed to come everywhere at once, Paragon thought. Not just from the figurehead. He had mentioned this to Tullen once, and she had looked at him strangely and told him he must have been imagining it.

He didn’t hear Captain Vestrit’s reply, but he didn’t need to – suddenly there were arrows thudding into the deck. Paragon dove to be completely behind the railings and made himself small, still hauling rope as he was supposed to. How had the other ship got that close without them noticing?

He looked around and saw mayhem on deck - the crew of the Vivacia fetched their weapons through the second hail of arrows. Paragon thought of the small blade on his hip. His mother had taught him to use it, and if she was even a small amount as dangerous as her reputation then his knowledge would be worth something. But he had never been in a real fight. These thoughts raced through him, and something like determination rose.

Then Tern thudded onto the deck a few feet away, eyes bulging, his blood spilling onto the wizardwood, and Paragon felt as though everything else had suddenly become soft and fuzzy and far away. He crouched, frozen, staring, until someone lifted him bodily until he was on his feet.

“Paragon, back to your cabin and lock yourself in! Now, fast as you can!”

Paragon looked dumbly at Wintrow’s face.

“Now, Ludluck!” Captain Vestrit added, his tone going straight to all of Paragon’s training.

Paragon blinked and nodded, and fled.

He darted across the deck, not looking around himself but just watching for obstacles and dodging the crew as they ran about their tasks, shouting to each other. He had almost cleared the deck when he felt anticipation and a different kind of fear flood his senses. The next moment the whole world seemed to jump sideways, and there was a terrific crash of wood on wood.

Paragon landed on his front, and came to realise a few seconds later that he was digging his fingers into the deck. Breathing heavily, he was about to get back to his feet and head for his cabin again when someone grabbed him around the waist and lifted him into the air. He kicked and writhed and tried to turn, but something was pulled over his head and then there was the feel of cold metal on his throat.

“That’s enough, boy.”

Paragon stopped struggling at the words, the thick Chalcedean accent telling him all he needed to know.

~

Wintrow was shouting orders as he ran across the deck, his sword drawn. Etta was already fighting ahead of him, and the Chalcedeans were trying to avoid her. Good. He had sent Paragon scurrying to safety, and although the two Chalcedean ships – _why hadn’t they seen the other one until too late?_ – had caught them by surprise, they were rallying now. The Marietta had caught up, and the Startouched… yes, they had joined the fray now, and the Chalcedeans –

The last surviving Chalcedean on the deck of the Vivacia took a running leap to make it to his own deck as his ship pulled away and missed by perhaps a foot. Wintrow held back a wince as the man collided with the side of his own ship before hitting the water and disappearing.

“Signal the Marietta to join us – we’ll harry them back to their own coast!” he called. Etta was abruptly beside him.

“Chassim will be displeased,” she said quietly. “She was going to gain much from this meeting. She will expect our demands to increase in response.”

Wintrow nodded absently; Etta might be able to consider that sort of thing while still following the movements of the five ships, but he felt it needed his full attention.

“They’re bringing out their archers again,” he muttered.

“I’ll organise the defence,” she answered, and left his side before he could answer. Wintrow headed over to the foredeck as they pursued the two Chalcedean ships. They were still within hailing distance.

“You are outnumbered and outmanned. Stand down and we will escort you to shore. We are on a legitimate diplomatic journey to meet with Duchess Chassim.”

A man on the other ship – the captain, Wintrow presumed – leant on the railing and called back.

“You are mistaken, Captain Vestrit. You are not welcome in these waters – I suggest you depart at once.”

Wintrow gritted his teeth. The man was too confident. What was he hiding? More ships in the mists by the coast? He glanced back. The Marietta was doing well, but the Startouched was falling behind.

“Damage to the mast, I think,” Vivacia said softly.

“We’re still even numbers with them,” Wintrow answered. “And we have a liveship.” He felt the warmth of quiet shared pride between the two of them for a moment before he responded.

“You cannot outrun us, Captain. We will not be leaving,” he called back, and then turned away.

The Chalcedean captain and the Vivacia spoke at the same time; one voice in glee and the other in horror.

“Captain Vestrit!”

“Wintrow!”

Wintrow turned, and felt as though his whole body had turned to stone. Two of the crew of the Chalcedean ship were holding Paragon between them. There was a knife to his throat.

The world seemed to close in. Vivacia called for Etta and Wintrow heard her approach. He did not turn around; he could not stop staring at Paragon, small between the two grown-men, his pale blue eyes wide and focused desperately on the Vivacia.

“No,” he heard Etta’s voice, soft, beside him.

The Chalcedean Captain leaned forward on his ship’s railing again.

“Captain Vestrit, you will turn your ships and flee back to the south. You will not come back to these waters,” he called.

Wintrow swallowed and forced out a response.

“Very well,” he answered. “Return the boy to us and we will leave you in peace.”

Etta was trembling with suppressed rage beside him, but he knew she would contain herself. The advantage of a liveship did not matter now. Paragon was too great a risk. And Wintrow knew that both of them were reliving in some part of their minds the events that had culminated in Kennit’s death – he, too, had been on an enemy ship and awaiting their rescue.

The Chalcedean Captain smiled slowly and the men behind him laughed.

“No, Captain Vestrit,” he called back. “We will hold on to the little southern prince, I think. And if you leave and do not return, we may be able to arrange for him to be sent back to you. If you do as we say, well, it may even be in one piece.”

Wintrow’s blood thudded in his ears, almost drowning out the sound of the waves.

“Run away, Captain,” the Chalcedean said. He did not call it, but Wintrow could read it on his lips.

“Do it.”

Etta’s voice was grim. When Wintrow did not move, she spoke again.

“Wintrow, he is brave and he is valuable, they won’t hurt him.” A pause. “Wintrow, they have other ships coming. We are outnumbered. We have ways to contact Chassim in Bingtown. And the swifter we move, the less time they have to prepare.”

The words sank into Wintrow’s mind like stones; he registered their meaning slowly, caught in the stare of those pale blue eyes.

“He’s waiting for us to save him,” he murmured, barely moving his lips.

“Wintrow, listen to her.” Vivacia. Wintrow swallowed, and gave a nod, hating himself.

“We will be in Bingtown,” he called back. “And we will have him back.”

The Chalcedean smiled wider.

“Good luck, Captain Vestrit!”

Turning and striding away across the deck of the Vivacia was not the hardest part. Nor was calling the order for retreat, or seeing the stricken look in the eyes of the crew as they obeyed. Nor was glancing back over his shoulder after a time and seeing nothing but a dot on the horizon where Paragon was. No, the hardest part had been wrenching his eyes away from Paragon’s pale blue ones. They matched the eyes he remembered. Kennit’s eyes. And they were wretched, and disappointed – and horribly unsurprised.

~

“Papa, when will Master Keppet be coming?”

Fitz looked up. Bee was stretched out on her stomach on the rug by the fireplace, her papers and inks spread around her so that she could observe the results of a busy evening’s painting. He thought about it.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Not for a few weeks. We did a lot of healing work, and he’ll be resting.”

She nodded a little at this. Her expression was contemplative.

“Why do you ask?” he enquired carefully, leaning back from his work. He had been trying to write out a basic explanation of the skill – if Dutiful wanted information from him, he preferred to be at least somewhat prepared. Bee gave a little half-shrug. He was glad that she was communicating at her old standard again – she had barely spoken at Buckkeep, and it had taken her a few days to adjust to being back at Withywoods.

“Is he going to stay here?” she asked quietly, watching the fire.

“I hope so,” Fitz replied, honestly but carefully. “He’s a very old friend; I’d hope you two would get along well. He’s good at that.”

Bee did not reply. After a few moments, Fitz leant back over his work and reread it. And sighed. He never seemed to be able to get all the nuances in his thoughts down onto the page, at least not to his satisfaction. After a few minutes, Bee spoke again.

“I like him,” she said. Fitz almost smiled. She said it with none of the arbitrary contentment of a small child, but with all of the considered decisiveness of an adult.

“Good,” he said quietly.

The room was warm and peaceful. Fitz allowed another hour or so to wile itself away before he stood.

“Come along now, Bee, it’s late – time you were in bed.”

Bee was already gathering her work together. They had grown used to this new routine over the last week. Fitz had not pushed her to start her studies again in a formal way; instead, he had taken advantage of Riddle’s take-over of the household to spend most of each afternoon and evening with Bee. They looked over books and she wrote out passages that she found interesting or she liked. They talked – or rather, he talked and Bee listened in her solemn way, only interjecting occasionally – about histories of the land, what Fitz knew of other places, and even stories from the world. After dinner, Bee painted and he returned to his writing. Fitz knew it wasn’t formal learning, but he hoped it would encourage her interest a little until Riddle found her a new tutor.

They walked down the quiet corridor together; when they reached Bee’s room, Fitz helped light a few candles and then moved to the door. Since they had returned, Bee had preferred to get herself to bed.

“Papa, which rooms will Master Keppet have?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Bee. We’ll have to think about it,” Fitz replied, making a mental note to ask Riddle in the morning. “Do you want me to stay until you’re ready to sleep?”

Bee shook her head.

“I’m all right,” she said softly, and then gave him a rare, direct look.

“Goodnight, Papa.”

“Goodnight, Bee.”

He slipped out and closed the door behind him.

Returning to his study, his thoughts turned to Bee’s questions. He was not surprised by her interest in Keppet, but every time she said the name he seemed to feel his skin tingle. He should never have said it; why hadn’t he thought it through?

He did not resent the Fool using that name; after all, Fitz had given it to him. The Fool had looked so lost and so terribly, calmly resigned to it. Fitz had had the idea in the back of his head… well, ever since the Fool had left the last time. He had meant it as a gift, and he did not want to revoke it. No, what he regretted was not having explained himself properly. The Fool had taken the name as a simple suggestion, and now it was what he intended to use. Which Fitz did not object to, exactly. It was just that the Fool did not know where the name came from…

Fitz pushed the thoughts aside uneasily. The matter was done. He would have to decide how to talk to the Fool about it at some point. But it was done.

Done.

He stepped inside his study again and stood just through the doorway. Habit told him to go to his desk and take up his writing again, but there was something restless in him that did not wish to be still. After a moment’s indecision, he went to his desk and tidied his papers away, trying to soothe himself with the careful ordering. When it was done he settled himself in one of the chairs by the fire with half a glass of brandy.

Come the morning, he would be busy again. He had made quite clear to Riddle that King Dutiful’s orders had been to Riddle, not to himself, and therefore the staffing decisions were entirely Riddle’s responsibility and did not need to be referred to Holder Tom. But Riddle persisted on including him in the decision-making, even if all Fitz did was wait until he had finished speaking and tell him to go ahead. Dutiful had something planned, some intention Fitz did not fully understand yet. So as at the moment he and Bee were safe, he would let it happen, and wait until the point of it all became clear.

Fitz looked across at the empty chair opposite him and pictured the Fool, curled up by the fire’s warmth. A small, weary smile came to his lips – he raised his glass a little, toasting his absent friend.

~

When the Vivacia was out of sight, Paragon swallowed. They had really left him behind. He knew they had not had a choice, but still – _they had really left him behind._

The Chalcedean Captain spoke in his own language – Paragon caught a few words, enough to know that he was going to be taken below. He had already resolved not to fight, drawing on lessons from both Wintrow and his mother. _Be prepared to fight until your last breath, but never fight uselessly. You head and your words may be able to get you out of trouble that no amount of fighting will solve. If all else fails, accept temporary defeat and use the time to gather your resources for another day._

He let the words ring through his head as the Chalcedeans either side of him hauled him across the deck. They barely let his feet touch the ground, almost carrying him below and through to the bowels of the ship.

It was some kind of storeroom – they dumped him unceremoniously on the ground so that he fell to his knees, and then one of them held him still against the barrels of whatever it was they were trading so that the other could bind his hands behind him and his feet together. They didn’t speak while they worked, and Paragon got the impression that they had done this before. He tried not to think that through too deeply. Then they left him, lying face-down on the planking. He tried to turn himself, and managed after some wriggling to be lying on his side. It had only been a few minutes, and already his wrists and ankles were starting to feel uncomfortable. His head ached, and he could feel that the grazes on the palms of his hands were swollen.

The minutes passed slowly. He counted the barrels he could see. Then he started counting knots in the wood. He could feel the panic inside his chest, like he was clamping down on some small, frantic creature. He could not bear to let himself think about it. He could not. He focused on his breathing. He imagined hearing a sudden change in the voices of the men up above, and then hearing footsteps on the stairs and the door to the store opening and Wintrow and his mother were there, and he had been so brave and they were so proud of him for not panicking, for not losing his head, of course they would not leave him – they were just trusting him, trusting him to be all right. Trusting him to be calm. Trusting him trust them. He could do that for them. He could. He would be fine. Yes, he would.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it to be true, trying to make it happen with his thoughts. Everything will be fine. _Everything will be fine._

The door banged open. Paragon opened his eyes in response – no Wintrow, no mother. Just the Chalcedean Captain, two men behind him. They muttered to each other in their own language; Paragon listened hard, trying to understand. Wintrow had taught him conversational Chalcedean – _you should always understand the languages of the people you’re responsible for, and many of our people speak Chalcedean_ – but Paragon was swiftly learning that it was one thing to understand words pronounced crisply and clearly in your own accent, and another to understand the muttered, swift words of a native speaker who was not interested in your comprehension.

Presumably at a command, the two sailors crossed the storeroom and took Paragon by the forearms, turning him and lifting him so that he was upright and facing the captain.

“Welcome aboard, Prince Paragon,” the captain said, mockery in his tone. Paragon held his tongue, afraid that his voice would shake, and merely nodded once to indicate his understanding. The captain approached him and inspected his face closely. Paragon wondered what he was looking for, and tried to keep his breathing steady and even. The captain shook his head and stepped back. Paragon found his voice.

“You can just let me go,” he said, his voice steadier than he had expected. “My mother and Wintrow won’t stop until I’m returned safely – you could catch them up easily. You don’t even need to get too close – put me on the oar-boat and they can take me up without you ever needing to risk your own ship.”

The captain observed him, his expression undecipherable. Then he nodded to the sailors – they tightened their grip. Even so, the backhand that the captain delivered knocked Paragon’s face into the shoulder of one of the sailors that held him. Paragon blinked, the edges of his vision fuzzed and dancing. His breathing was rapid now; he felt the calm he had fought to retain earlier was leaking away with the soreness of his cheek.

“The first thing for you to learn is I don’t take instructions from the sons of thieves and whores,” he said calmly, as though nothing had just happened. Despite the bruise he could already feel forming on the side of his face, Paragon opened his mouth in affront at the insult to his parents. The captain raised his hand again, warningly. Paragon closed his mouth again and swallowed. The captain smiled.

“You learn fast. Now, we know how valuable you are. The only heir to the Pirate Isles’ mockery of a throne.” He considered this a moment. “Perhaps we can have one or two of our stolen ships returned in exchange for you, hm?”

He turned and made to leave, but stopped at the door.

“I suggest you think carefully about how much you are worth, boy.”

When he left, the sailors holding Paragon let him drop to the floor and followed their captain out, shutting and locking the door.

Paragon lay on the boards, and this time he did not try to make himself comfortable. He just lay where he had been left, and made not a sound as salt tears ran over his skin onto the ordinary wood of the ship.


	3. Half-Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning (this chapter): harm to a child.

Paragon slept fitfully. It was cold in the belly of the Chalcedean ship, and he had no blanket. He been held prisoner for seven days now; he clung to that knowledge, aware in a part of his mind that without sight of the sky he could not be absolutely certain. Seven days. How long would it take them to reach the part of the Chalced they were aiming towards? What would happen to him then?

The waves rocked the ship. Paragon opened his eyes blearily, resigned to the motion. He had spent only a tiny portion of his young life on shore – he should not be able to get seasick. But without the sky, and lacking in adequate water and food, the motion of the ship was beginning to make even him feel nauseous. Nauseous and empty and headachy.

He closed his eyes again and tried to breathe in the steady, meditative way that Wintrow had taught him. Steady breath, steady thought. Control, rest, and sleep. It wasn’t as though he had much else to do anyway. They brought him food and water about twice a day – the most recent of which were only a foot away from his head. They had refused to untie him, and laughed when he had given in to his thirst and his hunger and bent his head over the bowl to eat and drink anyway. He had been humiliated to start with, his face burning and his eyes downturned. But now he was too tired to care.

He listened to the sounds of the ship that he could hear – the thuds of heavy footfalls, the muffled shouts of orders… he frowned. It was noisier that usual. And… yes, the ship was slowing a little. Were they near the shore? Paragon swallowed and fought for calm again. The captain checked on him every now and then, and on his last visit he had commented on Paragon’s unmarked face. _We’ll have to do something about that when we get to port, hm?_

Paragon was old enough to know that he was referring to slave tattoos. He was trying not to be afraid. Many people in the Pirate Isles had slave tattoos – true, Wintrow and Etta did not, but most of the crew of the Vivacia did. Even Tullen had a small one, and the ship’s girl was only a year older than Paragon. She had been rescued from a slaver by the Vivacia when she was eight, her family already dead. With no-one to look after her, Paragon’s mother had kept the two of them together until they could find Tullen a family somewhere. She had tagged after members of the crew with Paragon, learning, and when they had reached Divvytown she had asked Captain Vestrit, in a very nervous way, if she could stay on the Vivacia if she worked hard. Wintrow had considered it carefully – Paragon was due to take the position of ship’s boy soon, but Paragon would also have to continue his lessons and steadily increase his work as a Prince. Paragon remembered the explanation: _this way you can be ship’s boy and also a prince, do you see?_ He was due to be the sole ship’s boy again soon, when Tullen made crewmember – she was thirteen now, it wouldn’t be long. They were quite alike, the two of them; the only real difference was that she had a small leaping fish tattooed on her cheek, and Paragon’s face was clear.

Would it make a difference? Perhaps it would not. No, it would not, Paragon decided, trying to convince himself. Perhaps it would even be a good thing – mother said a prince should understand his people, because he represented them to the world. His father had had tattoos, his mother had said, on his back, though he had had them burnt off. There was no shame in it. He would not – it did not matter what the Chalcedeans did. Did not the fact of the Pirate Isle’s existence prove that such marks did not matter at all?

The problem was, it was all very well arguing those points when you were safe and warm; but Paragon was neither, and he could not quite get past his fear.

The shouts from above him increased, and suddenly the ship gave a lurch. Paragon winced as his body slid slightly across the floor. The Chalcedeans had not done him any serious damage that he could tell, but kicks as they delivered his food and water were common. The bruises ached. Paragon concentrated on the movement of the ship again and tried to work out what had happened. Had they docked, or had they changed direction? The ship was still moving.

What felt like almost an hour later, Paragon heard men approaching the door to the storeroom that functioned as his cell. He closed his eyes. It was easier if they thought he was asleep. But it sounded like more men than usual.

The door slammed open and Paragon was dragged upright and shaken until he opened his eyes. The captain stood in front of him, furious. He was bleeding from a cut on his cheek.

“Your whore of a mother thinks she is very clever, doesn’t she?” he asked. Paragon kept his mouth shut even as the familiar anger flared in him at the insult to his mother. The captain continued to speak.

“Sending swift birds to Chassim, pleading a diplomatic mission, threatening action – and my ship is attacked at the docks of my own homeland!” He took a step closer to Paragon. “Does she think this will help you, do you think? Or does she not care what happens to you? There is no port in no major city that we can dock in without risking attack.” He turned and paced the length of the storeroom and back, breathing heavily. Paragon noticed that there were other members of the crew gathered in the doorway, watching curiously. Several had wounds, bandaged or open.

“We go to Bretta in the far north,” he said bitterly. “A tiny little spit of country, less than a fishing village. All because your mother is stupid and because she thinks that I am stupid, too. I suppose you think you are lucky,” he continued, leaning in so that his face was only a few inches from Pargon’s. “Lucky that we will not stop in a major city – no tattooists in Bretta. I suppose you think that will save your pretty face.” He reached around and grabbed Paragon by the hair – Paragon let out an involuntary cry as he was dragged out the other sailors’ grasp and forced onto the floor. At a brusque command in Chalcedean, he was held still and his head trapped between someone’s knees. The Chalcedean captain drew a short, sharp knife.

“Let us save the world from deceit, hm?” he said. “Let us make sure that no one who ever sees you doubts what you are.” He leaned closer.

~

“That’s four in the kitchens, though only three of them are new – it’s good that we have some staff willing to stay, it makes much of this easier –”

Fitz murmured an agreement to Riddle’s efficient report of the latest arrangements, not really paying attention. A moment later, he remembered why he had sought him out.

“Keppet should be here in just under a month or so,” he said when Riddle had paused for breath, “I thought the green suite? It’s warmer and the view is good.”

He looked up to see Riddle’s resigned expression, and felt slightly guilty.

“It’s in good condition,” the younger man conceded. “It should not take much to get it ready. I’ll have Mistress Brisk arrange it. Now, Tom, the staffing…”

Fitz met his eyes.

“Riddle, you know I’m going to agree with whatever you suggest,” he said quietly. “We both know you’re busy, there’s no need to insist on meeting like this every day.” He watched the other man hold back a sigh.

“Tom, I know it’s Lady Nettle’s holding,” he said, just as quietly. “But you live here. And it’s important that your opinion is –”

“My opinion is irrelevant. King Dutiful gave you a job to do, Riddle. I’m not trying to make it harder,” he added as Riddle opened his mouth to respond. “I’m trying to allow you to do your best work without my interference.”

Riddle looked away from him for a moment, considering. Then he looked back.

“Part of my best work is keeping you informed,” he said. “You’re going to have to manage this when it’s all finished; you need to understand how and why it is put together the way it is. So, as I was saying…” he raised his eyebrows expectantly until Fitz conceded reluctantly and nodded at him to continue.

Half an hour later, and he was walking towards his study from the green suite – Riddle had been right – when he heard the soft sound of Bee padding along behind him. She had just slipped out of her room, and the door clicked shut as Fitz glanced around.

“Keppet will be here in a little under a month,” he said. “We need to make the green suite comfortable for him. Would you like to help?”

He glanced back again as she nodded. When they reached the door to his study, she spoke.

“Papa, I have an idea about how we could make the green suite a good place for Keppet,” she said quietly. Fitz regarded her, and heard her out. When she had finished explaining, he smiled.

“I think that would be an excellent idea, Bee,” he said, pleased. “Why don’t we sit and make a list of what we’ll need, and then we can have a word with Mistress Brisk?”

~

The Chalcedean ship docked. Paragon heard the sounds of the crew, felt the ship tug at the ropes now holding it in place. He didn’t move, but stayed where he was, lying on his back facing upwards so that the sticky, half-closed scars on either side of his face did not touch anything. He had fallen asleep with his head on one side a few days ago, and then had to endure the pain of pulling his face away from the wood where the blood had clotted and stuck.

Long minutes passed as he listened to the sounds of activity above. And then the sound of people approaching the door. They had docked, and he would be taken ashore, and from there…

While he had been at sea, Paragon had been able to cling to the idea that the Vivacia would find him. When he did sleep, he dreamt of her almost constantly. A liveship was a queen of the waves; how could she fail to find him and take him home?

But she had not. Once he was in Chalced, how was anyone going to find him? Ever again? Paragon knew that Chalced was much larger than Bingtown or any of the Pirate Isles settlements, and even those were difficult to search – how did anyone search a whole country?

The men outside the door, who had paused to discuss something in low voices, entered. Paragon felt as though he should have been dulled to this by now, but he still tensed and felt his fear rise as they roughly pushed him over onto his front and checked his bindings. Then a blindfold was tied over his eyes, and Paragon could not hold onto his calm anymore. He wriggled and yelled out wordlessly, writhing against the grips that held him still with little effort on their part. He knew it was useless, but he could not stand to be still anymore. He kept yelling and heard more Chalcedean voices from outside of the room; he was gagged but kept struggling to make sound. They forced a sack or something similar over his head – he heard something in Chalcedean about not being recognised – and then he was released and dropped to the floor. He only had a second to realise what was going to happen, and tried to curl himself into a ball – but the first kick caught him square in the ribs, a fiery sting of pain that blossomed across his chest. More kicks to his back and his stomach and his legs, until he lay there limp and quiet. Then he was picked up and thrown over someone’s shoulder, the pain from his ribs splintering his thoughts as he was carried out of his storeroom prison and through the ship to land.

~

“Anything from Chassim?”

Etta shook her head wordlessly as she joined Wintrow by the window. They looked out across Bingtown bay, despite its changes a view still recognisable as the one from Wintrow’s childhood in this house. His mother had been good to allow them to stay.

“I should go back down to the Vivacia,” he said quietly.

“Not yet.”

“Soon.”

The two of them stood in silence. It was all they seemed to have been doing for the last month. Writing letters, arguing with traders, sending messages to the Chalcedeans and back to the Pirate Isles; all these things had been done, over and over, but Wintrow felt as though the times of standing beside Etta in dreadful, empty silence had been endless.

No success. No news. Chassim had responded to their initial letter and their sources told them that searches had taken place up and down the Chalcedean coastline and in every major settlement – but Paragon and the ship that had taken him seemed to have disappeared. There had been an incident or two with ships fleeing ports as soon as they found out they were to be searched – but that was hardly unusual. And nothing had been particularly linked to Paragon.

“They are probably moored in a quiet bay somewhere,” Etta murmured, dredging the words of their all-too-familiar conversation up again. “They’ll wait for the searching to die down and then they’ll contact us.”

Wintrow looked at her. Her face was like stone – no expression, hardly any colour left in her cheeks, her eyes dull and tired. She had not cried since Paragon had disappeared, nor had she shouted. Wintrow had done both. When he had asked her about it, she had said she did not have the breath for either until she knew what had happened to Paragon. He supposed he could understand that.

He turned back to the view, and the two of them stood there, unspeaking, as the sun set.

~

Master Keppet, an old friend of the throne who due to his injuries did not feel able to cope with life at court and was therefore offered very kindly by Skillmistress Nettle a place in her holding, arrived at Withywoods around mid-afternoon.

Fitz knew the story and explanation for the Fool’s appearance at Withywoods, and had gone over it with Bee several times before allowing news of it to spread to the household. He was to have known ‘Master Keppet’ back when he had been in the Prince’s guard; they were old friends. When Keppet’s carriage arrived, Fitz was the one to step forward and help the Fool down. He was swathed in warm clothing and blankets, but even so he shivered slightly as he stepped out into the air. Carefully, Fitz guided him into the house.

“You must be tired,” he said. “Would you like to go straight to your rooms, or stay downstairs for a little while?”

The Fool – Keppet, Fitz reminded himself, feeling that odd little shiver that came every time he heard the name – considered this a moment before answering.

“My rooms, if you don’t mind, Tom. Thank you.”

Fitz nodded, and led his old friend gently up the stairs and along the corridors to the green suite. He was pleased to see that his instructions had been followed – the room was very warm. Once they were both seated by the fire with glasses of brandy, Keppet spoke.

“It’s good to be here,” he said softly, his face turned towards the flames.

“How are you?”

The slight man lifted one shoulder and dropped it.

“Not as tired as I was. I seem to have gained some of my strength back, and moving is easier. But…” he trailed off, and looked away. Fitz knew what he was not saying.

“I will look at your eyes, if you still want me to,” he said cautiously. “I cannot promise anything – I do not know that my idea will work. And even if it does, it may be limited – I may only be able to give you light and shadow.”

The Fool nodded slightly.

“I – I should like for you to try.” His voice was almost toneless. Fitz recognised the suppression of hope.

“Very well. Give yourself a few days to recover from the journey, and we shall see.”

A small smile twisted the Fool’s lips and then vanished.

“That would be good.”

~

Nettle Farseer turned over in her bed. Her dreams, normally peaceful and entirely within her control, were being interrupted. It was like a voice on the edge of hearing – someone calling out. The first time it had happened, she had reached out, expecting to find a coterie member in some distress. But the connection had dissipated as though she had tried to catch fog with her hands. This time she held the dream steady, carefully expanding its edges so as to hear what the voice was saying. It was young, she could tell. Young and frightened. Its fear had left a salty tang on the edges of the dream.

She could hear the echo of it now and fought the urge to grasp after it. Instead she let herself float towards it, gently, delicately, trying to touch and make contact so that she could understand –

_Loneliness. Pain. Fear._

Nettle sat up in her bed, her eyes open, the connection lost but the word that the boy had been calling echoing in her head.

_Vivacia._


	4. Snow and Shadows

‘All right. I think we’re ready.’

Fitz’s voice sounded cautious, but not uncertain. Beloved nodded, slightly adjusting their position to be as comfortable as possible. That was not easy these days; despite the healing work that had been done, Beloved’s age was beginning to make itself felt and the remaining (less serious but still noticeable) injuries were not helping.

They could hear Fitz moving around and sitting down next to the bed. Beloved understood at least in part what he would do: the coterie had failed to fix Beloved’s eyes with the skill. Fitz had not been able to explain entirely why, but he thought it was partly because the injury was so old, and partly because some of the flesh (or whatever you called the strange material in your eyes) had died, and partly because of Beloved’s not-entirely-human nature. When Beloved had pointed out that that had never been an impediment before, Fitz had sighed and countered that the way the coterie healed was not the same as what he had done to help Beloved.

And so today, Fitz would use the wit.

Or try to, at least. Fitz seemed very reluctant to display any confidence in the results, and Beloved was glad of that – it was easier to pretend this was some academic curiosity that was unlikely to succeed than to have hope crushed once again.

‘I’m going to put a hand over your eyes, is that all right?’ Fitz asked. Beloved nodded, but still had to hold back a flinch when they felt Fitz’s palm rest gently across their closed eyes. Fitz’s other hand slipped into Beloved’s, and Beloved gripped it gratefully.

‘Ready?’

Beloved considered answering mockingly – ready for what, exactly how could one be ready for this – but something in Fitz’s tone dissuaded them.

‘Yes.’

There was the familiar-but-alien feeling of another mind touching their own, and then something very different; something that was physical, visceral in a way that touching minds never seemed to be. Beloved’s instincts told them to shy away from the contact, but they held themself firm. The sensation persisted for so long that Beloved eventually relaxed – and after a while, strangely, it seemed the easiest thing in the world just to fall asleep.

~

_Vivacia. Vivacia. Vivacia. Vivacia._

Paragon let the name drum over and over in his mind, in time with the throbbing of his ribs and the movement of what he guessed was a cart. He could not be certain, because even on the occasions that he was given food, the blindfold was not removed. He could barely feel it anymore, and wondered vaguely if that meant that some of his face had gone numb. It was cold. Colder than Paragon had ever experienced.

He was lying on his stomach, breathing as shallowly as possible in order to avoid the worst of the pain from his ribs, his hands bound behind him. His feet were still bound as well. It had obviously been judged easier to pick him up and carry him than force him to walk anywhere. Not that Paragon thought he could walk, if asked. His knees tingled unpleasantly occasionally, and there was a dry burning feeling around his ankles where the rope was – but other than that he had very little feeling in his legs. His arms were much the same. He knew, dully, that he was filthy – he had occupied this lowered niche in the bottom of the presumed cart through a dozen stops and his captors did not seem to care about the natural consequences of keeping a human being confined in such a way. He was given food intermittently, water a little more often. He tried to sleep as much as possible, feeling a coward but not knowing how else to survive.

It was getting colder. Paragon felt sure of it. The motion of the cart jarred his ribs slightly. They had been travelling for so long – and before this he had been on horseback, and before that another cart of some kind.

There were two guards in the cart with him, but they spoke little and paid even less attention to Paragon – he tried to feel grateful for that. Better to be treated like cargo than to get another beating. He suspected sometimes that, compared to the stories of slave trading and assorted inhumanities that he had grown up being told about, his experience was not that bad. Whenever this thought came into his mind, he cursed himself for cowardice – how could he claim to be suffering? He just had to hold himself together. But that soon came crashing down in the face of the hunger and the thirst and the cold… the numbing cold…

Paragon was so lost, so tired and so worn down that it took him a few minutes to realise that the cart had come to a stop. He felt something heavy and wooden slide over him, stopping just short of actually putting weight on his back. He panicked for a moment, then fought to snuff it out. This had happened once before. He imagined he was being concealed, and wondered vaguely who from.

There were voices outside – Paragon had given up trying to understand Chalcedean. Voices talking – then, suddenly, voices shouting. Anger, fear. There were thuds that sounded like several things had hit the wood of the cart. _Arrows?_

Paragon strained to hear despite his position, but could make out nothing but chaos from outside. And then, a swift silence broken only by crisply called orders in a language that did not sound like Chalcedean at all. Then the creaking of wood – then the cart shifted the way it would when someone climbed aboard. A few steps across the wood, a pause… and then a scraping noise as the piece of wood hiding him from view was dragged aside.

He heard the man’s low exclamation of dismay; then the man called something out. Another voice, further away, called an acknowledgement.

Gentle hands touched Paragon’s shoulders. He flinched without meaning to, and pressed himself into the wood. The words _don’t hurt me_ came to his lips but were made incomprehensible by the gag. The hands paused for a moment, and then the hood was being gently removed. Paragon heard the sound of a blade being drawn and wanted to struggle but found he did not have the energy; then there was something cold and metal against the side of his cheek and he felt tears he thought he had run out of come to his eyes. But there was only the feel of the smooth metal moving against his skin for a moment, and then the blindfold was carefully peeled away from his eyes.

He blinked fuzzily, the flesh around his eyes puffy and swollen and his eyes gritty. The world was blurry and dark, though there was a white brightness visible on his periphery.

The same hands and blade carefully cut away his gag, and Paragon tentatively moved his sore mouth and cracked lips. He still did not have the energy to lift his head to see the man above him, and he was not sure that he had the nerve to. Then there was a waterskin; the man poured it gently but generously, letting enough get down Paragon’s throat that the dryness eased somewhat but not so fast that he would splutter or choke. Then a voice. The words were incomprehensible. A pause. Then again; this time, the words were Chalcedean. Paragon tried to piece them together, frowning. Speaking, something about speaking. Speaking Chalcedean?

There was another pause, and then…

‘Jamaillian? Do you speak Jamaillian, then?’

The accent was strong but the words still clear. Paragon felt a tiny flutter of hope in his chest. He licked his lips, and nodded his head slightly.

‘Yes,’ he said, the voice not sounding like his own. ‘Yes, Jamaillian. Yes.’

The man above him gave him more water.

‘Gently, do not rush yourself,’ he said. ‘I am going to cut your hands and feet free. Do not hurry to move them – the joints look swollen and sore, they will hurt.’

Paragon gave another minute nod and felt the man move. The same short blade that had cut away his blindfold and his gag made short work of the bindings on his feet and hands. The man carefully helped Paragon roll over onto his back and gently rubbed his shoulders, wrists and ankles until the pain was at a bearable level. Paragon looked up at him, willing his eyes to adjust properly. It was hard; Paragon realised after a minute or so that this was because the man was silhouetted by the light coming from outside the covered cart. He lay still, and licked his lips again without thinking. The man saw.

‘More water?’ he asked. Paragon nodded and forced his throat to work.

‘Please,’ he managed. The man nodded, and called something not in Jamaillian over his shoulder.

There was a pause, and then the cart shifted again – Paragon winced – and another man climbed aboard it. Paragon could not understand his words, but the tone of them was concerned, questioning. The first man answered, and the second man gave him something. Another waterskin. Paragon closed his eyes and drank as the second man left the cart; the first man did not give the waterskin to Paragon to hold, but held it for him and let the water flow gently over his lips.

‘Can you sit up? If I help?’ he asked. Paragon looked up at him blearily.

‘I don’t know,’ he managed, his voice still cracked but not quite as bad as before. The man nodded.

‘Are you cold?’ he asked; Paragon nodded. The man called out another instruction, and then looked around him. He pulled a cloak or blanket from one of the seats, and very carefully tucked it around Paragon.

‘Not much for now,’ he said, ‘but we’re going to get you somewhere warm and safe.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s Paragon, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘That’s your name?’

Paragon nodded slowly, wondering how the man knew it.

‘I’m Dutiful,’ he said slowly, still in his accented Jamaillian. ‘I’m a friend. Try to stay awake for me, all right?’

Paragon nodded again, and fought to keep his eyes open. After a little while, the cart started moving again. His eyes widened in fear, but the man called Dutiful placed a soothing hand on his shoulder.

‘Easy, easy, it’s all right. We’re taking you somewhere warm and safe, remember? Get you something good to eat and a hot bath and some healing.’ Now that Paragon’s eyes were beginning to adjust, he could see that the man with him was dark, with even darker eyes, and his expression was kind. He tried to smile back at him, but the movement of his mouth felt strange. He felt the tears come to his eyes again and was not sure why.

‘Easy, it’s all right. You’re going to be just fine. Everything’s going to be fine. You’re safe now. It’s all right.’ The man kept up this steady flow of comforting platitudes as the cart moved steadily on. The movement was not so jarring on Paragon’s ribs now that he was lying on his back, but it was still unpleasant.

The cart rolled on. Dutiful gave him a little more water every few minutes, and also used a little on the edge of a cloth to carefully clear some of the grit from his eyes. Paragon murmured his thanks each time. He wanted desperately to fall asleep, but at the same time he was terrified that if he did he would wake up to realise this was a dream.

To keep himself awake, he looked at Dutiful, trying to judge who he was. His clothes were well-made, and looked very warm. They were practical, with a hint of richness. There was a stag sewn onto his blue jerkin. Paragon thought he knew what that meant, but he was too tired to remember.

Eventually, the cart stopped. Dutiful turned and called a few words that Paragon did not understand, then turned back.

‘Paragon, this is Riddle,’ he said softly. ‘We’re at an inn. We’re going to take you inside and look after you, give you some food and help you get clean. Then you can sleep in the warm tonight. Is that all right?’

Paragon swallowed, and nodded a little again. Warmth and food and sleep and cleanliness.

‘Thank you,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper. Dutiful smiled back at him.

A tall man who looked to be a little older than Dutiful joined them in the cart, and the two of them carefully lifted Paragon out. It was colder outside, and there was a stiff breeze. Paragon shivered under the cloak that Dutiful had wrapped around him. Riddle, who was carrying him, looked down at him.

‘Warm soon,’ he said, his accent thicker than Dutiful’s. ‘Nearly there.’

Paragon gave another tiny nod.

Riddle had not lied – it was only moments before the Paragon was carried indoors, then up a flight of wooden stairs and into a small room. Riddle put him down gently on a chair and Paragon sat, dizzily. Dutiful was there again.

The next hour or so went by blurrily. Paragon was helped to undress and get into a warm bath – he did not really feel he had any dignity anymore, but nonetheless Riddle was both kind and polite, looking calmly in a different direction whenever possible to at least give Paragon the illusion of privacy. The water was warm, not hot, but it brought life back into his body along with a new swell of tiredness. He was not left to sit in the water long – just enough to warm him again. The room itself was not cold, the fire blazing merrily, and he was wrapped in warmer clothes.

‘They’re too big for you, but they’re warmer than what you had.’

He heard Dutiful’s words and turned them around in his head as though they were a strange new concept, his mind foggy and slow.

He was helped into a chair, a hand on his back to help him stay upright. There was food: an odd brown soup and bread, a little dry but heaven to Paragon.

‘Eat it slowly, you’re not used to it.’

He nodded blearily at Dutiful’s words, and slowly chewed his way through two pieces of the bread, dipping them in the soup as he went. When he was finished he continued to sit there for a few minutes until Dutiful and Riddle helped him into bed.

No energy left for curiosity or fear, Paragon fell into soft warm sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He vaguely noticed a blanket being pulled carefully over his shoulders.

~

Fitz sat back from his place by the Fool’s bed, blinking. He looked at the sky – dusk. He had been here all day. Well, they had prepared for that. Master Keppet kept mostly to his own rooms anyway, still recovering from his injuries. Fitz had told the new housekeeper that he was working in his study and was not to be disturbed, and Bee had promised to keep an eye on the locked door to the study and deflect any servants who were seeking him. Fitz smiled softly to himself. Bee kept surprising him, and never in negative ways. She was due to start her formal lessons again soon – as soon as Riddle hired a teacher, and at the rate Riddle was organising the workforce at Withywoods that would not be long.

Fitz sat still a little longer. He wondered whether to wake the Fool or not, and decided it would be unfair to leave him to wake alone. Gently, he reached over and placed a hand on the Fool’s shoulder.

‘Fool,’ he said softly. ‘Keppet. Wake up. It’s evening.’

‘Mm.’

The Fool stirred, his eyes still closed, then froze without opening them.

‘Fitz, are they –’

‘No,’ Fitz said swiftly, knowing the Fool would prefer honesty over failed hopes. ‘I think I mended some things that we couldn’t mend before, but I don’t know that it has actually given you any sight.’ He sighed. ‘This type of healing is so slow. It’s like trying to make water run uphill. I think I could do a little at a time, and perhaps…’

Fitz’s voice faded out as the Fool opened his eyes. They were still milky-grey, but they seemed a little darker than they had before. Perhaps it was the light in the room.

There was a moment of silence.

‘Fitz, wave your hand over me,’ said the Fool in a cautious, tense voice.

Fitz did so, his mouth dry; they he did it again. The corners of the Fool’s mouth turned ever-so-slightly upward.

‘A shadow,’ he said softly. ‘I could see – it’s so little, Fitz, but it’s so much better than nothing. A shadow passing across the greyness.’

Fitz felt hope rise in his heart a little, and reached for practicality to caution it.

‘It’s only slight,’ he said. ‘I think I can fix small things each time we try – if you are willing to try again?’

The Fool nodded. His expression was not quite happy, but nor was it sad. Fitz had no words for him.

‘We should go to dinner,’ he said awkwardly after a minute or so had passed. The Fool nodded again, and allowed Fitz to help him to his feet and guide him out and along the corridors.

The meal was ordinary, good food. Bee spent most of her time stealing sideways glances at Keppet, even when she and Fitz were discussing a little of what she had read today. As for the Fool – he seemed hardly to notice the food, though he ate well. His eyes did not move, but his head turned whenever a servant entered the room and followed their movements.

When Fitz walked him back to the green suite after their meal, the two of them were quiet. It was only when they reached the door that the Fool turned and placed a hand lightly on Fitz’s cheek.

‘Thank you,’ he said softly. Not knowing what else to do, Fitz reached up and solemnly covered the Fool’s hand with his.

‘I’ll do everything I can. I promise.’

They stood still together for a moment, alone in the corridor. And then the Fool slipped into his own suite. Just before the door closed, Fitz heard him speak quietly.

‘Goodnight, Beloved.’

‘Goodnight Keppet,’ he returned equally quietly to the closed door.


	5. First Sight

When Paragon awoke, it was light in the room. A man was standing by the fire, warming himself. Paragon felt better than he had in weeks. He shifted position carefully, wary of his tender wrists and ankles and shoulders and hips and _oh Sa why was everything suddenly sore_ …

Presumably at the sound of his movement, the man by the fire turned.

‘Prince Paragon,’ he said. ‘Good to see you awake. How are you feeling?’

Paragon blinked, and recognised Dutiful by his voice before he could find the recollection of his face from the day before. He looked different in the clear light from the window.

Dutiful raised his eyebrows and Paragon recalled that he had been asked a question.

‘Better,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

Dutiful smiled, and came over to him, sitting down in a chair beside the bed. He helped Paragon to sit up carefully, and passed him a tray with bread and soup on it.

‘I know; the same fare as yesterday,’ he said apologetically. ‘But it’s only a small inn, and it’s best you keep to simple food initially until your body can readjust.’

Paragon had no complaints. The bread was fresher this time – presumably it was only baked in the morning – and the soup had a different flavour to it. Or perhaps Paragon was just paying it more attention.

When he was finished, Dutiful lifted the tray out of the way and rolled his shoulders a little, stretching. Then he smiled gently at Paragon again.

‘Now that you’re a little more awake, we can talk,’ he said. Paragon nodded and tried to look attentive.

Dutiful paused for a moment, seeming to consider what to say.

‘Firstly, I know that you are Prince Paragon of the Pirate Isles,’ he said. ‘We’ve heard rumours of your disappearance. Do you know where you are?’

When Paragon shook his head, Dutiful nodded.

‘You’re in the Six Duchies,’ he said quietly. ‘Buck Duchy, to be precise – about half a mile from the border with Rippon.’

Paragon’s eyes widened, and he swallowed.

‘A long way from home,’ he said softly. Dutiful’s smile became sad, and he nodded.

‘A very long way,’ he agreed. ‘Now, as I said – we have heard rumours of your disappearance. As I was already intending to visit Shoaks Duchy, it seemed something worth looking into. And I am glad that I did.’

Paragon took this in, and then asked,

‘Who are you? If you, if you don’t mind me asking,’ he added hesitantly, unsure if he had been rude. But Dutiful just nodded.

‘I’m King Dutiful, of the Six Duchies,’ he said, adding when Paragon’s eyes widened again, ‘no, it’s alright, you’ve been very well-mannered – and even if you hadn’t been, I think we could excuse that from someone who had been through what you have.’

Paragon swallowed back apologies and looked down at his own fingers, twisting each other on his lap. When he looked back up, King Dutiful’s expression was patient and open.

‘It’s all right, lad,’ he said, his tone informal and kind. ‘You’ve had a hard time of it.’

Paragon gathered his thoughts somewhat.

‘King Dutiful,’ he began, and then hesitated. ‘What – well, um; what is – what’s going to happen to me?’ He was ashamed of how tentative his voice became, but King Dutiful did not seem to notice.

‘We’re going to take you back to Buckkeep – that’s where I live. It’s about four days’ journey from here. Then you can recover there, safe and well, while we try to work out how to get you back to your parents.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ Paragon responded, remembering his manners. King Dutiful nodded in response.

‘You’re very welcome. It’s the least we can do. We might not be allies officially, but we’re no enemy of the Pirate Isles – and besides, if it was one of my boys that went missing…’ he let the end of his sentence hang for a moment, and then continued. ‘You’ll have some company while you’re at Buckkeep – Prosper’s fourteen and Integrity’s eleven. You must be…’ he looked at Paragon questioningly.

‘Twelve,’ Paragon answered. He had been nearing his name day when the Chalcedeans had captured him, and it must have passed by now.

‘Twelve,’ Dutiful nodded. ‘Right between the two of them. They’ll be delighted to meet you, I’m sure.’

Paragon nodded in response, unsure of what else to say. He and King Dutiful remained in silence for a few minutes before Paragon ventured another questions.

‘How are we travelling to – to Buckkeep, my lord?’ he asked, wrapping his tongue around the unfamiliar name. His voice was still croaky and rough despite the soup and all the water.

‘By horseback is fastest,’ King Dutiful answered, ‘but I assume – can you ride?’

Paragon shook his head. Living on the Vivacia, he had never needed to learn. King Dutiful just nodded.

‘That’s what I thought. Hm. Well, you’re light for a boy your age – we’ll try you on one of the gentler horses, with Riddle or one of the others holding the reins. If you struggle with that, then you’ll have to share a horse. Worst comes to worst, we have the cart, though it’ll slow us down.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t envy you. Those ribs looked sore. We’ll get them bound for you this morning, but they’re going to hurt whether you travel on horseback or in the cart.’

Paragon swallowed nervously, and did not answer. He thought of the horrible jarring of the cart, and felt his chest tighten up. He looked down at his lap again, and it was almost as though his vision darkened slightly. More travelling, further away from home with every step, and the pain wasn’t going to stop –

He looked up when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

‘Paragon, it’s going to be all right. You’re going to be all right. I know it hurts. But it’s not far to Buckkeep and this journey won’t be like that one. I promise. We can stop whenever you need to, and we’ll look after you. As soon as we get to Buckkeep I’ll start working on how to get you home.’

His voice was soothing without being condescending. Paragon felt pathetically grateful.

‘Thank you,’ he said softly. Dutiful smiled a little.

‘You’re welcome. Now, why don’t we get your ribs looked at, and then we can be on our way?’

~

Green.

Green.

_Green._

‘Green.’ Beloved turned the word over, enunciating it carefully, enjoying the edges it had in Duchian. It was softer in Jamaillian, then the edges were rounded slightly more in the Bingtown accent. Harder in OutIslander. Fractured into two syllables in Chyurda. Green.

‘Mm?’

Fitz sounded tired. Beloved wondered how much effort it took to do this, but only for a moment, because they were very much preoccupied.

‘Green,’ they said quietly, awed. ‘The ceiling. It’s green. It’s green in this room. I can see it, it’s green.’

Next to the bed, Fitz sat up; Beloved heard the movement and thought they detected a slight shift in the shadows, too.

‘Keppet, that’s brilliant,’ he said, tiredness and surprise in his voice. Not delight. Beloved wondered when last Fitz sounded delighted. Before Molly had been lost to him, certainly.

‘Green ceiling,’ Beloved repeated, overwhelmed by the strange newness of the familiar colour. It kept intruding on their meandering thoughts.

‘It’s the green suite,’ Fitz remarked. ‘That includes the ceiling.’ His tone was dry, but there was some levity in it and Beloved smiled. When their sight was returned – to whatever level could be managed, they reminded themself – they would spend some time working out how to give Fitz back some of that happiness. He deserved it.

They remained like that for a little while, Fitz in the chair beside the bed and Beloved gazing up at the ceiling, dreamy and transfixed. After some time had passed, a thought occurred.

‘How will you explain this?’ Beloved asked quietly. ‘I was blind when I came here. Now I am… well, still nearly blind. But I’m better. So much better.’ They heard Fitz shift his position slightly.

‘I let it be known that the coterie at Buckkeep tried to heal your eyes before you left, but due to the nature of the injury it would be some time before any result would be seen – if any there would be.’ Fitz’s words were carefully chosen, and Beloved could tell he had spent some time thinking this lie through. Beloved nodded.

‘What about Riddle, and the coterie? You haven’t told them…’

There was a pause. Beloved had spent most of the last two months exhausted and trying to recover, but they had managed to work out that Fitz was not exactly on good terms with the rest of Buckkeep – particularly, for some reason, Nettle. It had something to do with the little Lady Bee.

Oh, the little Lady Bee. Beloved wondered what she looked like, if she looked very like Fitz or like Molly, how pale she was (for she would almost certainly be pale). She often spent time in Beloved’s presence, but she was so quiet; if they had not known each other so brilliantly in the marketplace they would have wondered if she was afraid of them.

‘It’s not skill, so it’s not coterie business,’ Fitz said slowly; Beloved could tell he did not quite believe himself. ‘At some point we will have to have a conversation about it, but I’m not sure how much detail we will go into.’

Beloved let the pause hum awkwardly for a few long seconds before making a suggestion.

‘What about Master Web?’ they offered, remembering the man from what seemed like very long ago. ‘He is still at Buckkeep, I heard Dutiful say so.’

‘Web… perhaps,’ Fitz said guardedly. ‘He may not be… well. Risk is very old now, and I believe they are both expecting…’ he trailed off. Beloved could never quite control the strange connection between the two of them, but there was an odd tugging at it that they recognised. Fitz had done that intermittently since he had lost Nighteyes. Beloved wondered sometimes if he realised what he was doing, but had decided long ago not to mention it. Some things did not need dragging out into the light.

Those thoughts led somewhere dark and sharp, and Beloved tugged their mind away from it, focusing again on the soft green of the ceiling. _Beautiful. Why did I never notice how beautiful this was, before?_

Dimly, they heard Fitz rise from his chair, and spoke before he could.

‘You should go to dinner,’ they said. ‘I’m not really hungry, I think I shall stay here.’

There was a pause, and then Fitz conceded.

‘I’ll send the servant with a tray, and tell them you don’t feel up to joining us at the table,’ he said as he moved to the door. ‘Good evening, Master Keppet.’

The formality of the words told Beloved that there was a servant in the corridor. A smile curved their lips slightly.

‘Good evening, Holder Tom.’

~

They arrived back at Buckkeep in late afternoon. Dutiful raised an arm in greeting when he saw Elliania standing in the arch of the main doors. She waited there, out of the rain, while the small company dismounted. Dutiful kept an eye on the young Prince Paragon, who was almost asleep on the saddle – Riddle, who had been holding the reigns of his horse for the latter part of the journey, had to help him down. The southern boy was quiet but wide-eyed once roused, and followed Dutiful across the courtyard to the main part of the keep without a word. As per Dutiful’s instructions, Riddle stayed close behind the prince – Paragon only spoke Jamaillian and a little Chalcedean, but Riddle spoke more Jamaillian than most of the servants or guardsmen, so he would be the one to take responsibility for their visitor’s needs.

‘My lady,’ Dutiful called, feeling his voice and heart warm with the words as Elliania smiled at him. He turned to include Prince Paragon as they all reached the shelter of the main doors.

‘Queen Elliania, if I may introduce Prince Paragon of the Pirate Isles; Prince Paragon, this is my wife, Queen Elliania,’ he said formally. Paragon gave a polite half-bow despite his tiredness; Dutiful saw him wince and make the bow shallower, and judged that his ribs were still causing him some pain. Two fractured, he suspected, though the healers would be more certain.

‘Welcome to Buckkeep, Prince Paragon,’ Elliania said. ‘Let us not stand on formalities more than we have to – inside, to warmth?’

Dutiful smiled back at her and nodded to Paragon and Riddle. They made their way inside. Elliania had thought things through – two servants immediately met Riddle and the prince, and Riddle spoke to them swiftly as he checked the arrangements for his charge.

‘Prince Paragon,’ Dutiful called; the prince looked up at him and Dutiful tried not to wince at the dark shadows beneath his eyes and the anxious expression he showed. ‘If it’s all right with you, Riddle will just take you up to your rooms now. Food and rest, that’s what you need. The healers will see you in the morning – as will I, if that is acceptable to you?’

Prince Paragon nodded gratefully.

‘Thank you, King Dutiful, that would be wonderful.’ The boy’s voice was still thin and weak.

Once Prince Paragon was out of sight, swept up the stairs by the servants and Riddle, Elliania took Dutiful’s arm despite his wet clothes and leaned into him as they walked.

‘He’s so very slight,’ she said. ‘And so afraid.’

‘He’s a very long way from home,’ Dutiful answered, mulling over the thought.

~

The healers were calm and efficient, and reminded Paragon of Wintrow. They removed the binding on his ribs and redid it, applied some ointment to most of his bruises and cuts and gave instructions partially themselves and partially through Riddle for Paragon to reapply it every day on the more serious injuries. Then the older woman, who looked to be the most senior healer, inspected the injuries on either side of his face.

Riddle had helped him wash the injuries back at the inn when he had first been taken into Duchian care, but that had only been enough to clear away what was sticky and dirty. And there had not been a glass in the inn for Paragon to see himself in. Here, in the well-lit room through whose windows Paragon could see the ocean, he saw the damage that had been inflicted on him for the first time.

The healers had taken water and some kind of ointment, and cleaned the sides of his face. It was uncomfortable and sore, and Paragon was warned several times that the cuts might reopen and bleed a little; he suspected that they did, but he never felt more than a light tingle. He realised after a little while that whatever was in the ointment had a slight numbing effect. All the way through, as though aware of his discomfort and his nervousness, Riddle spoke to him. He explained that while Jamaillian was a known language in the Duchies, it was predominantly spoken by the noble classes or those who traded by sea, and not so much by servants, guardsmen or the farming folk. He asked what languages were spoken in the Pirate Isles, and Paragon told him Chalcedean and Jamaillian for the most part, trying to do so without moving his jaw too much. Riddle told him a little about the royal family – King Dutiful, Queen Elliania who came from the OutIslands (Riddle called them the God Runes), and their two sons, Princes Prosper and Integrity, as well as King Dutiful’s mother, the Lady Kettricken from the Mountain Kingdom – and said that the young princes were most excited to meet him. Paragon listened to his descriptions of them, grateful for the distraction. Riddle had a knack for describing people in a way that was memorable, and amusing without ever diminishing them.

Once the cleaning was done, the senior healer came forward again. She had Paragon turn his face first one way, then the other, and then frowned slightly and spoke in low, fast Duchian to Riddle. Riddle nodded, and then translated.

‘She says we can give you something to help smooth the scars, if you would like. Your skin is young and it is unlikely that the markings will remain… clear, for very long.’ Riddle phrased it delicately. Paragon nodded, and then screwed up his courage.

‘May I see?’ he asked, glad that his voice did not tremble. He fought to keep his nerve as Riddle translated his request, and one of the other healers brought forward a glass and handed it to him.

Paragon stared at the image it reflected. His face was narrower than he remembered – he knew he had lost weight, but had not thought it would be that obvious – and the skin around his eyes was darker, slightly sunken. The blue of his eyes seemed paler than usual. He steeled himself and turned his head to see the wounds.

They were crudely done, that was unmistakeable. Done in anger, done to hurt. The lines were jagged and the shapes slightly disturbed by the contours of his face. But they were readable, to anyone who knew Chalcedean symbols. On one side _thief_ ; on the other, _whore_. His father and his mother.

‘There is an ointment; it will sting, and bleed a little, but it will blur the edges of the wounds so that any scarring is…’

‘Unreadable,’ Paragon said, finishing Riddle’s sentence without looking away from his own reflection. It was bizarre, like looking at someone else’s face. It could not be his own. He could not bring himself to look away – but nor could he bring himself to touch the cuts with his free hand.

‘Yes. Hopefully. It is not guaranteed, but she says you have strong chances.’ Riddle paused, giving Paragon a moment to think, and then continued. ‘It should be done swiftly, if it is to be done. Already a lot of time has passed since the marks were made.’

Paragon swallowed, watching the way his own expression changed as he accepted the information.

‘I would appreciate it, thank you,’ he answered, letting the glass be taken away from him and fixing his eyes instead on the ocean waves. The keep was high above the water, and despite the greyness of the day Paragon could see quite far. Despite his calm exterior, he was grateful for Riddle’s steadying hand on his shoulder as the healers went about their business.

~

Dutiful looked up at the knocks on his study door and hid a smile. The boys always had to do everything together, didn’t they?

‘Come,’ he called. The door opened, and his two sons came in. Prosper, the elder, was growing tall. He bore a strong resemblance to his father, many said, and young Integrity had something of King Verity about him. But Dutiful always saw Elliania in both of their smiles, and the way they moved. Dutiful gestured to the chairs by the fire.

‘Take a seat, boys, I’ll be with you in a moment. I just need to finish this…’

He did not rush. He suspected he knew what this was about. When he had finished the letter he had been working on, he set his pen and inks to one side and joined the young princes by the fire. He observed them for a moment, and then remarked,

‘Well, boys? What is it that you want?’

Integrity glanced at his brother and then spoke first.

‘Father, we were wondering if we could visit Prince Paragon today.’

‘If he’s recovered enough to have visitors, that is,’ Prosper added, always the temperance to his younger brother’s enthusiasm. Dutiful sat back in his chair.

‘Well, I believe the healers are seeing him this morning. And then he may well want to rest again; he’s really very tired.’ Dutiful recalled the waves of exhaustion coming off the injured boy and felt another surge of pity for him. Prosper and Integrity exchanged glances, looking disappointed.

‘Perhaps tomorrow, in late morning once you’ve completed some of your studies, you could drop by and see if he would like some company?’ Dutiful suggested. His sons’ expressions lifted, and they agreed immediately.

‘Just be careful not to wear him out,’ Dutiful warned them as they got to their feet. ‘He’s exhausted and he needs a good deal of rest. He’s also going to horribly homesick, alone in a strange place. Keep him company and make him smile if you can, but don’t push it.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Yes, Father.’

The two princes slipped out of the room, and Dutiful smiled to himself as he went back to work. It would be good for all three of them to spend some time in each other’s company. And it might keep Integrity out of mischief for at least a few hours.

~

There was a knock on the door. Paragon looked up.

‘Come,’ he called, pronouncing the word carefully in Duchian. He caught Riddle’s smile as the man went to the door and felt pleased. He had not learnt much Duchian – he had only been here two days, really – but the day before he had asked Riddle to teach him a few words. Thank you, please, come in, and a handful of greetings in Duchian were now in his vocabulary.

The door opened, and two boys came in. Paragon sat up straighter in his chair by the fire, and then stood cautiously – he was still a little dizzy now and then. Riddle cleared his throat and spoke in Jamaillian.

‘Prince Paragon, if I may introduce Prince Prosper and Prince Integrity.’

The three boys nodded to each other and there was a brief, formal pause – and then the older boy smiled and stepped forward.

‘Prosper,’ he said, breaking the formality. His younger brother grinned.

‘Teg,’ he added.

Paragon smiled back gratefully.

‘Paragon,’ he said. ‘It – I don’t really know if I can shorten it. I never have.’

Teg laughed in a way that was not at all mocking, and Paragon warmed to him.

‘How are you?’ Prosper asked. ‘Father said you were still very tired, and we’re not to wear you out.’

Paragon shrugged a little.

‘I get a little dizzy on and off, but it’s not too bad,’ he said. ‘And I’m not as tired as I was.’

‘Well, we thought we’d keep you company,’ said Teg brightly, moving to sit down by the fire. Prosper and Paragon joined him. ‘Very dull sitting around by yourself. What shall we do?’

Paragon waited for Prosper to perhaps make a suggestion. But nothing came. Teg only let the silence linger for a few moments before he carried on.

‘All right. What do you like doing? I won’t ask Prosper, he’s very boring.’

‘In your uneducated opinion,’ Prosper returned swiftly, his tone surprisingly teasing for his more reserved manner.

‘Keep thinking that, Pros. So, Paragon?’

Paragon bit back a laugh as Prosper gave his brother a look and then shook his head at Paragon. The two of them obviously said this sort of thing about each other a lot.

‘Um. Well…’ what did Paragon like doing? Right about now he would be on duty, or working on his lessons with mother. He liked climbing rigging; he liked having long conversations with Wintrow about the people he had met and the different ways things worked. He liked reading with his mother, despite being much too old to need to anymore. He shoved down the strong tang of homesickness. ‘I don’t know, really. What do you two do in your spare time?’

‘Well,’ Teg said somewhat dramatically, and Prosper gave him another look.

‘When we’re not studying or training, we play games or go riding, mostly,’ the younger Farseer answered. Paragon’s interest rose.

‘What are you training in?’ he asked. In the south, particularly in Jamaillia, Wintrow and his mother’s decision to have Paragon as ship’s boy and work his way up was considered bizarre and incomprehensible. Even in Bingtown, a lot of the wealthy trader families allowed their children to avoid manual labour when they could.

‘Prosper’s in the kingsguard, or nearly,’ said Teg, ‘and I’m to be an archer. So we have weapons practice every other day. And I suppose some of our lessons are training, of sorts. Diplomacy and that sort of thing. Prosper’s better at that than me.’

Prosper smiled slightly and rolled his eyes.

‘Only because Teg is too impatient with the whole thing. He’s good with people, generally – when he isn’t annoying them.’

Teg laughed, his eyes bright, and for the next half-hour or so Paragon was caught up in their good-natured teasing and stories about the keep and their lessons and the people at court. When their conversation started to dry up, Teg asked if Paragon would like to learn a game they played, to which Paragon readily agreed. The youngest prince had the pieces in his pocket, and unrolled onto a table by the hearth a smooth piece of cloth with a pattern of intersecting lines on it. Then he took out a pouch with red, black, and white stones in it, and proceeded to explain the game. He did it well, cleanly and clearly, though there were occasional pauses where he rearranged what was clearly a well-rehearsed explanation to fit more smoothly in Jamaillian. Prosper helped occasionally, but did not really interrupt.

They played a few games, first the two Duchians against each other while Paragon watched to gain a better understanding, and then Paragon played each of them. Food was brought up at midday, and the three of them abandoned the game-cloth to eat together. After lunch they went back to it, talking and playing for a few hours until Paragon found he was struggling to keep up with the conversation and his eyes wanted to close a little too much. Prosper was the one to draw things to a close, and asked if Paragon would mind them meeting again the following day. Paragon said that he would not mind at all.

After they had gone, Paragon disrobed slowly and climbed into the bed. Riddle had agreed to wake him a little later to eat. He felt calmer than he had in weeks, lighter, and was very grateful to have had the company. It was only a distraction, it did not stop anything from hurting – mentally or physically – but it did help a little.

Paragon sank into a light sleep, red, black and white stones clicking in his mind.

~

Fitz frowned at the letter in front of him. Dutiful’s hand, passed by messenger. It was polite, formal and emotionally neutral, and explained that events had arisen that might delay their initial meeting; _if this is not acceptable to you please inform me by return message and I will make other arrangements. Otherwise, I will be in touch to arrange our first meeting._ Fitz thought he could see both Chade and Kettricken’s influence in the style of the letter, but knew this decision was not theirs at all. Dutiful had been quite clear that he was taking matters out of their hands.

After considering the letter a while, Fitz shrugged to himself and put it aside. If Dutiful was going to delay coming, then so be it. The situation he described did sound unusual. A southern prince in the north – a long way from home, not to mention the strangeness of Chalcedeans making it as far as Buck Duchy with a prisoner without being caught. The Duke of Shoaks would be furious. Fitz reached for his papers, when there was a tap on the door of his study.

‘Come in,’ he called. The door opened slowly, and Keppet appeared. Fitz sat up and watched his old friend as he carefully negotiated closing the door behind him and finding a chair. He had a long cane that was helping him navigate, and he was managing well, if tentatively. When Keppet was seated, Fitz spoke.

‘You seem to be doing well,’ he said neutrally. Keppet – the Fool – and those two names were both strange now, because Keppet was not exactly the Fool but the name Keppet still felt oddly intimate on Fitz’s tongue – nodded.

‘I have blurry outlines, particularly when the space is well-lit,’ he said softly. ‘And, as you know, some colour.’

‘Yes.’

There was a comfortable pause. Fitz still felt heart-sore and yawningly empty when he thought of Molly; but in moments of quiet like this, with the Fool, it felt as though a small part of the pain had eased.

‘News from Dutiful,’ he said, to make a little conversation. The Fool raised his eyebrows.

‘Oh?’

‘Mm. He still intents to visit, but he has been delayed. Southerners and Chalcedeans.’

‘Do tell.’

Fitz pulled the letter in front of him again.

‘Prince Paragon of the Pirate Isles was found held by a group of Chalcedeans near the Buck-Rippon border,’ he read aloud, and looked up at the Fool’s swiftly indrawn breath.

‘Go on,’ was all the Fool said after Fitz waited for him. Fitz shrugged.

‘Not much to it,’ he said. ‘The boy wasn’t too badly hurt. They’ve brought him back to Buckkeep and he’s recovering while Dutiful tries to work out how to get him back to his parents.’

‘His mother.’

‘Hm?’

‘Nevermind. Do they know what happened to him? For him to have ended up here, I mean?’

Fitz frowned.

‘I suppose he will have told them, but Dutiful doesn’t mention it in his letter,’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘It’s just surprising, that’s all – so far away – I’m sure half of the south will be looking for him, as well as Queen Etta and King Wintrow of course…’ The Fool lapsed into silence again, a pensive expression on his face. Fitz let him be and went back to his papers.

~

A week passed. Paragon spent most of his days resting or enjoying Prosper and Teg’s company. After the first two days, the Duchian princes had to return to their studies – but Paragon joined them in the library where they were working and did his own reading. After she discovered that Paragon found it quite interesting, Teg’s tutor often encouraged Teg to share what he was learning with Paragon as a way of helping him go over the knowledge. It was primarily politics and history that Teg was learning, mostly of the Six Duchies but also of the Mountain Kingdom and the God Runes, and significant dealings that the Six Duchies had had with other countries. Prosper spent a little less time studying, and his lessons were focused on more recent politics. He also spent a good deal of time writing, his tutor only looking over his work occasionally. When Paragon asked him about it, he smiled ruefully.

‘It’s contracts and law,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind it, but it’s very detailed and repetitive, so it can be hard to stay focused. And I need to get it clear in my head.’

‘Why? I mean,’ Paragon added as they walked slowly along the corridors, ‘I know there are lots of things to learn. But the way you talk about this – you’ve got lots of time to learn it.’

Prosper gave a half-shrug.

‘I’m fourteen,’ he said. ‘If things go well, I’ll be King-in-Waiting in two years.’

When Paragon looked puzzled, Teg leapt in to explain. In two years time, Prosper would take a greater burden of work. He did not know exactly what work his father would give him, but –

‘- I think it will be contracts and law,’ he finished.

‘It’s sort of traditional,’ Teg explained, ‘that the current monarch gives the King-or-Queen-in-Waiting whatever bit of ruling the like the least. And Father’s always muttering about the fiddly legal side of things, all of the clarifying things in writing. He prefers to talk things out, he says, or write it plainly.’

Paragon nodded, but did not answer. The staircase they were now climbing was rather steep, and he was swiftly getting out of breath. Prosper held up a hand and stopped the three of them.

‘Paragon?’ he asked. ‘Are you all right? Do you need to rest for a minute?’

Paragon leaned back against the cold stone wall and concentrated on making his breathing even again. The other two waited patiently. After a minute or two, he nodded.

‘I’m okay,’ he said.

‘We can always go back,’ Teg offered. ‘It’s only a view. We can go up and see it another day –’

‘I’m all right,’ Paragon countered firmly. ‘I need to push myself a little, otherwise I’ll never get any better. Besides I want to see it. Let’s keep going – only, maybe a little slower.’

The other two agreed, and they gradually made their way up the tower. When they reached the top, Teg pushed open a door.

‘Welcome to the Queen’s Garden,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Best view in Buckkeep.’

Paragon stepped out and stared around himself, his breath making soft mist in the early-morning air.

The Queen’s Garden was a very simple, elegant arrangement – plants and flowers must have been abundant in the summer time, Paragon guessed. But what really caught his attention was the view.

On his right, the sea stretched to the horizon, the cold northern waves relatively calm in the still air. Straight ahead, the coastline meandered further north; Paragon thought he could see a whiteness to where it met the horizon and wondered how far he was seeing. On his left lay the Six Duchies. Teg led him further across the tower top to see it better.

‘See, we’re in Buck – over there is Bearns, then Tilth and Farrow; Rippon and Shoaks are behind us; and do you see there? On the horizon?’

Paragon squinted, and made out a purplish haze. He said so. Teg nodded.

‘That’s the Mountain Kingdom. Well, more or less.’

Paragon let out a huff of amazement. Teg carried on talking, pointing out little landmarks and guiding him around to see the islands off the shore, but Paragon stayed silent. The scale of the world around him was overwhelming. He had to have misjudged the amount of time he had been with the Chalcedeans. Or maybe the time it took to sail to Chalced – or travel with King Dutiful to Buckkeep. The distances seemed impossible, magical. It was beautiful, but a slow horror crept over him. _A long way from home._ He had said those words. Riddle had, too. But he had not understood what they meant. There was so much world here – and not the world he knew and could navigate, the inner passage and the Cursed Shores and the coast of Jamaillia. That was all known, navigable, limited – there was land, and there was sea. By mist or fog or the trees of the Rain Wilds or the towers of Jamaillia, it had edges and he had a place in it. Wending his way through. There was the open ocean, of course. But somehow that was not as bad. Wintrow had taught him to navigate when he was five – he had not understood all of it then, of course, but he could always find his way home at sea. It seemed simple. And he had always thought of the sight of the ocean stretching endlessly as sort of an illusion – sail long enough and you find another shore, another island. This mass of land – miles and miles and miles –

Paragon felt as though he was shrinking. He was tiny in this world, and it dizzied him. Small and lost and alone and they would never find him. How could he find his way home from here? A small part of him cried out that this was unreasonable, he was safe and the Vivacia could sail here as easily as she could Jamaillia, but it was drowned out by the wave of panic and fear the overwhelmed him. He was lost. He did not belong here. And he would never be able to get home. And even if he tried, there was Chalced, full of men like the ones who had brought him here, too many, it was too much, he couldn’t breath, he was gasping for air –

‘Paragon? Paragon, are you all right?’

He barely registered Teg’s voice, and then he felt his knees buckle. Instantly there were two pairs of hands on his arms and back, supporting him.

‘Help him sit down, there on the bench.’

‘It’s all right, Paragon.’

‘Should we run and fetch someone? Or take him back down?’

‘Let’s not try the stairs until he’s feeling better. Paragon?’

‘Hey, Paragon, take it easy, it’s all right.’

‘You’re all right. You’re all right.’

One hand was rubbing the top of his back gently as Paragon came back to himself. He was sat on one of the stone benches on the tower-top. Prosper and Teg were either side of him, their voices concerned.

‘Just breathe, you’re all right.’

‘He looks really shaky. It’s okay, Paragon. Maybe you’re not that great at heights, lots of people aren’t.’

Paragon could not stop himself breathing fast; he kept trying but all it got him was spots at the edge of his vision. He looked up, blinking, trying to clear them – the sky was all around him, the endless sea to one side and the endless land to the other –

‘In,’ he managed, ‘please, back inside, please –’ he needed to get away from the space of it, needed to get back his own scale of himself.

Prosper and Teg conferred for a brief moment, and then they each took an arm and half led, half carried him back across the tower top and through the door. They sat him down on the floor at the top of the stairs; Paragon swayed and Prosper reached an arm around him to steady him.

‘I’ve got you,’ he said. ‘Teg, go run for Riddle or someone. Don’t let it be a big fuss. Hurry up.’

Teg nodded and headed down the stairs as swiftly as he could. Prosper stayed where he was, arm around Paragon.

‘Just breathe, breathe steady,’ he said calmly. ‘You’re all right, you’re going to be all right.’

_You sound just like your father._ Paragon thought it but did not have the wherewithal to say it out loud. He just sat there, his head spinning, fear ebbing and flowing across his mind, trying to follow Prosper’s advice.

It was not long before they heard footsteps on the stairs again – Teg appeared, followed by Riddle, who looked concerned. He knelt down on the steps in front of Paragon.

‘Prince Paragon?’ he asked. Paragon just looked at him. He felt a little steadier now, but not much. And it was better inside the tower than out, but that did not prevent him from imagining the world outside it. He felt the panic rising again and tried to stamp down on it.

‘How long has he been like this?’ Riddle asked.

‘It started outside in the garden,’ Prosper said. ‘We sat with him for a few minutes and then brought him in here – Teg went running for someone as soon as we came in.’

Riddle nodded, and tilted his head to try and catch Paragon’s eye.

‘Prince Paragon?’ he said again, and then, softer, ‘Paragon? Are you all right? Can you stand?’

‘He was almost falling over without us earlier,’ Teg whispered to him when Paragon just stared blankly back at him. The blackness on the edge of his vision was back. He blinked furiously, trying to make it clear, and realised his cheeks were damp.

Riddle seemed to have come to a decision.

‘All right. Prince Paragon, I’m going to carry you back to your rooms,’ he said gently. ‘Is that all right?’

Paragon managed what must have been a nod, for Riddle nodded in return. He gave the other two some instructions, but Paragon wasn’t listening; then he stood, and bent over, and picked Paragon up to carry him in his arms like a child. Paragon’s dizziness reasserted itself and he closed his eyes, creasing his forehead.

‘Is he going to be all right?’ Teg asked quietly.

‘He’s going to be just fine, Prince Integrity,’ Riddle answered. Paragon clung to the words as Riddle carried him carefully down the stairwell.

When they reached the same floor as Paragon’s rooms, he thought Riddle would put him down and have him walk, but he did not. It was not a long journey, and soon Teg was opening the door to Paragon’s rooms and Riddle was carrying him in and setting him down carefully on his bed. Paragon rolled himself over onto his side; Teg disappeared and Riddle pulled a chair up to next to the bed. He rested a hand on Paragon’s shoulder.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Try focusing on one small thing, use it to steady yourself. Something simple. Narrow your concentration, think about only that.’

Riddle’s words sunk in, but Paragon couldn’t seem to do it. Slowly, the horrible gasping fear seemed to subside. In its place was a wave of shame and embarrassment and a terrible desire to be back home on the Vivacia, to run into his mothers quarters and fling himself into her arms. After a little while, he realised that he was crying. Sobbing horribly, coughing and sobbing again, unable to stop himself. Riddle did not murmur platitudes. He rubbed Paragon’s shoulder steadily, as though reminding him that he was still there.

Eventually, Paragon’s tears ran out. He blinked them away and realised that it must be nearly midday.

‘I’m sorry, Riddle,’ he mumbled, humiliated. Why did he have to be like this? He felt so stupid and childish.

‘There’s nothing to be sorry for, Prince Paragon,’ Riddle replied gently. ‘Nothing at all. You’ve had a very hard time, it’s only natural.’

Paragon sniffed, feeling as though an entire ocean had poured through his head and left no energy behind. It did not feel natural.

‘An old friend of mine,’ Riddle said, his tone careful, ‘who has been through a lot of hard things, once told me that when men are cruel they aren’t ashamed of themselves. And that’s because they make the person they are cruel to think that they are responsible for the shame.’ He paused, and Paragon frowned as he worked that out. 

‘You mean that,’ he cleared his throat a little, ‘I feel bad because the Chalcedeans don’t?’

Riddle gave a little half-smile.

‘Sort of,’ he answered. ‘It’s more that a person knows that what happened to them was shameful. But those to whom the shame belongs, they refuse it. They leave it to their victims. My friend said that it can take a long time for someone to learn to let go of the shame they’re holding onto, but they can do it.’

Paragon considered this as his head began to clear a little more. It made a sort of sense, but he did not like that it might take a long time.

‘Your friend sounds like he’s thought about this a lot,’ he said quietly. Riddle laughed a little.

‘He does a lot of thinking. I think sometimes he’s wiser than he knows. Of course, we’ve known each other a long time, so sometimes I think the opposite. You always do with old friends.’ He raised his eyebrows and Paragon gave a small laugh of his own. Riddle looked at him.

‘Do you want to get some rest?’ he asked. ‘You seem like you’ve worn yourself out. I can bring you some food a little later – I’ve no tasks to see to this moment, so I can stay in here. If you wake and you need anything, you can just call for me.’

Paragon nodded gratefully. Riddle helped him get out of his outdoor cloak and pull his boots off, and then covered him with the blanket as he closed his eyes.

~

In a darkened room in Withywoods, Fitz sat back in his chair. Beloved turned their head towards him, and opened their eyes.


	6. Families

‘Fool…?’

Beloved heard the scrape of Fitz’s chair as he knelt down beside the bed, his face level with Beloved’s. His _face._ Oh, _Fitz._ The world slowed to a halt.

No streak in his hair to live up to his assumed name anymore; and it was not even greying at the roots. His face was just as Beloved remembered it, and Beloved remembered it so well; how had he not changed? His eyes, so dark as to be almost black, looked directly back at Beloved. He still wore his hair back in a warrior’s tail, the habit of years, and the break in his nose still disrupted his otherwise all-to-recognisably Farseer features. Their breathing shallow, Beloved reached out with one hand, turning their body to be lying on their side. Their fingers traced the smooth line of Fitz’s jaw, and then ran gently over the long scar on one cheek. Fitz was absolutely still. Beloved touched his hair, watching it push down slightly under their fingers. They swallowed.

‘I can see you,’ they said softly. ‘Fitz, I can see you, oh _Fitz…_ ’ Their voice cracked slightly. Fitz reached a hand forward and rested it on Beloved’s shoulder.

‘Clearly?’ he asked. ‘How well can you see?’

‘I can see – oh Fitz – I – you’re exactly as I remember.’ Beloved creased their brow. ‘How? It’s been years, you should be…’

‘Old?’ Fitz asked. His voice was neutral, controlled, but there was an edge to it, a tightness that Beloved did not understand.

‘Yes,’ Beloved replied. ‘Not that I have an objection,’ they added, their tone not quite as light as they had intended it to be. ‘It’s so good to see you again.’

Their voice broke a little on the last few words, and Fitz squeezed their shoulder, his face softening in concern.

‘But you can see? As well as before?’

Beloved nodded slowly, feeling the softness of the pillow underneath their cheek, not taking their eyes off of Fitz. Beautiful, impossible Fitz. They reached out a hand again to touch him. A hand… Beloved withdrew it again swiftly, not wanting to see the damage they could feel. They swallowed, wondering when they would have the nerve for the brutal honesty of the glass. _How long has it been since I have seen myself?_ So much damage had been done since. To distract themself as much as to satiate their curiosity, Beloved spoke again.

‘But it’s impossible, how can you still be…’

Fitz sighed and looked down, sitting back on his heels. Guilt suffused Beloved; this was not right. They had left Fitz to have his happy ending, and over and over it seemed that that had gone wrong. Perhaps they should never have left. _Or never have come back._

‘You don’t have to tell me, I’m sorry –’

‘No, it’s… it’s fine.’ Fitz swallowed, and explained what had caused his unchanged appearance. Beloved winced when they understood the cause of it; but they did not fully understand Fitz’s toneless explanation until he reached the end.

‘I suppose it seems like a blessing,’ he said. ‘But I should have grown old with Molly. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.’ He bit off the last word as though stopping himself from saying more. _It wasn’t supposed to be like this._ Those seven words were very familiar to Beloved, and they ached for Fitz. They watched as Fitz steadied himself against the pain and regained control of his voice before looking back up at Beloved.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. ‘Lightheaded at all?’

‘No,’ Beloved answered after a moment’s consideration. ‘I feel… quite well, actually. Relatively speaking.’ The aches and pains seemed to be steadily lessening with the warmth and the comfort and the rest; they were still present, but had become a little easier to bear.

Fitz nodded, and then gave a small smile.

‘Bee was very keen to find out when you would be coming,’ he said conversationally. ‘She had an idea to make your rooms a little more special. Usually I would be reluctant to change much – this place still feels like Patience’s to me in many ways. But I think she would have liked Bee’s idea. It’s not quite finished yet, but,’ he raised his eyebrows, ‘would you like to see it?’

 _Intriguing._ Beloved nodded, wondering what it was. They were glad to see that any mention of Bee seemed to lift Fitz’s spirits slightly.

‘All right,’ Fitz said, ‘sit up slowly, and keep looking at me.’

Beloved felt some of their curiosity twist into amusement.

‘If you insist,’ they said sweetly, widening their eyes. Fitz gave them a look, and some of the happiness that Beloved had been so long without rose again at the sight of it. Fitz helped them to their feet, until the two of them were stood facing each other in the candlelit room. Beloved wanted to look around it, to drink in the full-sighted vision of the world around them; but they could do that later. Now, they had been asked to keep looking at Fitz, and they were quite content to oblige. Beloved let their eyes run over the details of his features, reassuring themself that this was real, this was seeing again, this was everything… Fitz took careful hold of them by the elbows and Beloved felt the familiar thrill of that contact, placing their hands on Fitz’s forearms in response. They were vaguely aware that other people might be more reserved in their feelings; but for Beloved, feelings had always come in great swathes and rushes. Fitz led Beloved across the bedchamber, and out into the sitting room, turning them so that their back stayed to the largest wall. Beloved quirked and eyebrow at him, but Fitz said nothing. He let go of them, moved a few candles around to change the light, and then nodded.

‘Turn around,’ he said.

‘Demanding. Very demanding,’ Beloved returned, revelling in watching Fitz pull a face at their teasing; then they turned.

At their indrawn breath, Fitz spoke quietly.

‘She’s been working at it for weeks, whenever she’s not at her studies,’ he said. ‘She keeps adding to it, still.’

Beloved gazed at the wall, speechless. It had obviously started as the same soft green as the rest of the room, but it had been painted over in breathtaking detail.

It was a meadow. The flowers closest were growing up from the floor, and then went back smaller and smaller until they reached woodland, great shadowy trunks whose leaves brushed and blurred into the green of the ceiling. Beloved could see where it was not finished; some flowers were still simple coloured outlines, and there were blank green patches where nothing had been done yet. But it was still perfect.

‘It’s – oh, Fitz, it’s incredible.’ Beloved breathed the words, almost hesitant to disturb the air. They half-expected the flowers to stir in the wind they could hear outside. They wondered briefly how they had not noticed at least the bright colours of the flowers before this, but then they did not normally linger in this room – preferring to seek out Fitz in his study.

Beloved could not stop looking at it. Their eyes kept finding new little details, the little bees that buzzed among the flowers, the different grasses in between them – and there, in the shadow of the trees, was that…?

They turned to look at Fitz, who looked sheepish, and shrugged.

‘She said there should be a wolf in it,’ he said quietly. ‘Bee only draws flowers and plants, for now, so she asked me to. It’s not as good as the rest, sorry.’

‘I had forgotten how well you can draw,’ Beloved said simply, and turned back to inspect the painting again. The wolf was at the back, on the far right, half-hidden by the tree trunks.

Beloved felt Fitz move a little closer to them; they let their arm swing slightly, brushing their knuckles against his.

‘It’s perfect.’

~

Paragon slept for an hour or so, and then spent a quiet afternoon by the fire in his rooms. Riddle offered to fetch him something to read, and came back with a collection of Duchian folktales and children’s stories.

‘I don’t offer them to condescend,’ he explained, ‘but I thought they might be more interesting than the dry histories.’

Paragon nodded and thanked him, and flicked through the works carefully. Most were in one very beautifully bound volume – he wondered how expensive it had been. Bookbinding did not seem to be very common here, the Duchian library had more scrolls, vellums and tablets than books. He was glad he did not need to face Prosper and Teg again yet; Riddle had been very understanding, but Paragon still felt ashamed of what had happened in the Queen’s Garden.

The stories were strange; Riddle explained that there were several versions of each one, as they had often been – and still were – passed on by word of mouth and changed to suit each teller and their audience. The versions in the book were the best known or most popular ones. There were several that involved people who could speak to animals, or transform into them; whole villages that disappeared in the night only to reappear when invading forces had given up; older stories where the sea and the land had voices of their own, and passed judgment on the people or helped them in their endeavours.

Paragon could not help but compare them to the stories he had heard growing up. Of course, growing up mostly at sea meant that most of his stories had been nautical – but there were still things they had in common with the Duchian tales. There were captains who could speak to the creatures of the deep, or still the waves of a storm with a command; there were ships that disappeared and reappeared, or were said to be sailing endlessly on without their crew; the strange stories surrounding Others Island.

The tales were a good distraction, and despite his earlier panic Paragon felt very calm sat there by the fire, deciphering the Duchian characters with the help of Riddle and a set of notes on the words. At Riddle’s encouragement, he started writing out a translation to Jamaillian of one of his favourites – the story of a woman who could speak to the trees of the forest and her friend, a fox.

As dusk neared, there was a knock on the door. At Paragon’s acknowledgement a page entered and delivered a message: Prince Paragon was invited to join the royal family for dinner in the great hall, if he felt well enough.

Paragon tested his own feelings tentatively. He did feel a little better. And it would be good to be among other people. He knew that he had been welcome to join them since he had arrived, but he had been sleeping so much that it had been easier to eat in his rooms. He agreed, and at his query Riddle reassured him that he would be seated with Prosper and Integrity and that those around him would be very understanding of his being unable to speak Duchian.

The great hall was a bustling, talkative place – and despite the courtesy of waiting until King Dutiful was seated, no one seemed too preoccupied with formality. Paragon was indeed seated between Princes Prosper and Integrity, with King Dutiful only two seats to his right. The Duchian princes kept up a lively chatter throughout the meal, and made no mention of the events on the tower top that morning. They both seemed genuinely pleased to see him. Paragon was grateful for their response; it would have been hard, he felt, if he had no longer had them to spend time with.

When the meal was done, Paragon was quite tired; he left the table with the royal family, intending to head straight to his bedchamber. He nodded along to Teg’s conversation as they walked along the corridors, and was about to part ways from them with the goodnights he had learnt carefully in Duchian, when King Dutiful spoke.

‘Prince Paragon, a decision has been reached about returning you to the Pirate Isles,’ he said quietly. ‘Would you come to my study at midday tomorrow so that we can discuss it?’

Surprised, Paragon stared at him for a moment before responding appropriately.

‘Yes, my lord – thank you,’ he said, gratitude springing up in his heart. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re very welcome,’ King Dutiful replied, and then bid him goodnight.

Paragon walked back to his rooms, already anticipating the next day. Home. He was going _home_.

~

When he knocked on the door of King Dutiful’s study the next day, he was welcomed in quickly. King Dutiful looked up from his papers and smiled at him, offering him a seat by the fire. He abandoned his desk to join him, and explained the arrangements. To Paragon’s surprise, King Dutiful himself was going to escort him back to his mother.

‘We’ll travel overland to Shoaks, which is about two weeks, and from there by water to Trader Bay,’ he explained. ‘From there we can try to find out where we can best find the Vivacia. It may well be that Queen Etta has remained there in order to be close to Chalced for any news of you.’

Paragon nodded.

‘If she isn’t, my lord, Wintrow’s family live there and they should be able to get in contact with them by bird-message.’

King Dutiful nodded in return. Paragon licked his lips and looked down, calming himself before asking his question.

‘My lord, how – how are we going to get past Chalced?’ There was no tremor in his voice, but he felt his fear must still have been audible. King Dutiful gave a nod of acknowledgement.

‘This time,’ he said, ‘you will be travelling with me. The Chalcedeans are in uproar; all of their own structure is interrupted. The south is not trading with them, but we are. Although Chalcedeans will occasionally bother the odd trading vessel, they won’t harm a ship with the royal standard – if I don’t trade with them, they don’t eat.’

His voice was firm and confident. Paragon felt slightly reassured.

‘All the same,’ King Dutiful continued, ‘if it’s acceptable to you, I’ll ask you to stay below decks out of sight when as we pass Chalced. Don’t want to give them any unnecessary temptation.’ He shifted his position in his chair, settling down. ‘We considered trying to get a message through to Bingtown or even just to Duchess Chassim, but our channels of communication are very unreliable at the moment. There would be a chance that all we would be doing would be alerting whoever took you to the fact that you will be in Chalcedean waters again, however briefly; or, if the message gets garbled, it could give Queen Etta quite the wrong impression.’

Paragon smiled nervously, and nodded again.

‘How long will it take, the journey?’ he asked. ‘I… I sort of lost track on the way here.’ He swallowed.

‘Well, all in all it should take about a month,’ the older man responded. ‘It’s two weeks overland from Buck to the part of Shoaks we’ll depart from, and then about two weeks again to reach Trader Bay by sea – though that journey I’m much less familiar with, so it may be a little longer. If we have to travel further south to seek out your mother and the Vivacia, I’m willing to do it – but we’re not quite the sea travellers that your people are, so I’m hoping we’ll be able to meet Queen Etta in Bingtown.’

Paragon nodded. He felt as though he was doing a lot of nodding, and reached around in his thoughts for another question.

‘When do we depart, my lord?’

At this question, King Dutiful let out a long breath and sat back further in his chair.

‘Soon,’ he said, his expression frustrated. ‘It’s not easy for me to up and disappear for two or more months at a time, I’m afraid. I’m trying to extricate myself. I’m speaking to the council this afternoon, and I’m hoping we’ll be able to leave in two weeks.’

Paragon thought he had well concealed his expression of disappointment, but evidently King Dutiful had caught something of it.

‘I know it’s frustrating, Prince Paragon. I am sorry; I wish I could take you back immediately. But these things are complicated.’ He sounded apologetic, but firm; Paragon met his eyes.

‘I understand, my lord,’ he said, and found that he did. ‘It’s hard for my mother to act spontaneously too.’ King Dutiful smiled at him.

‘Queen Etta sounds like a remarkable woman,’ he said. ‘I look forward to meeting her. And King Wintrow, too, of course. And seeing Bingtown.’ He looked into the fire for a moment, contemplative. ‘It’s been several generations since a northern monarch ventured that far south, you know; all very exciting.’

His conspiratorial tone brought a smile to Paragon’s face.

‘I expect you’ve visited Bingtown often?’ he asked. Paragon nodded.

‘We spend most of our time in the Pirate Isles,’ he said, ‘but our strongest diplomatic ties are with the Traders, so we go there most years. Vivacia usually runs north to south so as to keep in touch with as much of the Pirate Isles as possible, as well as Bingtown to the north and Jamaillia in the south.’

‘Bingtown to the north,’ King Dutiful repeated, amused, ‘now there’s a phrase that’s strange to my ears. Does the Vivacia not often dock, then?’

Paragon considered this thoughtfully.

‘In Divvytown most often,’ he answered. ‘That’s the biggest town we have. But because mother lives aboard the Vivacia, the ship itself is our centre of government. There’s not really any reasonable way to travel by land along the Cursed Shores, and a lot of the population doesn’t travel far, so the Vivacia travels to them.’

He stopped, and thought about this for a moment. He was remembering all of this from his mother’s explanations, and from his own experience; it was only now that he came to explain it to someone that he realised how unusual it was. Every other country had their ruler settled somewhere, usually in the most defensible place. But then, wasn’t that what the Vivacia was? Or… Paragon realised that there was a chance that the Vivacia would never feel quite as safe to him again as it had before he had been abducted. A strange sadness crept into his heart.

‘Quite a remarkable manner of organisation; but it sounds as though it works very well.’ King Dutiful paused. ‘I understand you are your parents’ only child; do you have any other family?’

Paragon shook his head.

‘Not really,’ he answered truthfully. ‘Just Wintrow’s. I suppose there’s my father’s family, but they’re fairly distant relations and they never knew him that I know of. I’ve met them, once or twice – they’re Bingtown Traders – but only formally. I know Wintrow’s family quite well, though. His mother’s Trader for the family, and she and his grandmother live in Bingtown. His aunt and uncle are Captains Trell, of the Liveship Paragon –’

‘The same name as you,’ King Dutiful remarked curiously.

Paragon smiled sheepishly.

‘I was named after him,’ he explained. ‘Wintrow’s got siblings, too, a younger brother and sister, but they live in Kelsingra so we don’t often see them unless we sail up to Trehaug.’

‘I understand, yes.’

The two of them sat in silence for a few more moments. King Dutiful was watching the fire again.

‘But you have friends, I’m sure?’ he asked. ‘Jamaillian nobility, Traders’ sons and daughters, the crew of the Vivacia…’

‘Mostly just the crew,’ Paragon answered, wondering at the direction of the conversation. ‘Everyone else, well, we can’t really…’ he trailed off.

‘Be friends,’ King Dutiful supplied. ‘Yes, I know the way it can be.’ There was something curious in his tone again, and Paragon tilted his head on one side questioningly. King Dutiful looked at him, and then gave a faint smile.

‘We have something in common,’ he explained. ‘My father, he also died before I was born. And my mother was queen as I was growing up, the only possible heir to the throne – the rest of my family died in the Red Ship War, you see. I grew up having to be very… diplomatic in who I chose to associate with, and under those circumstances it can be difficult to make close friends. My mother was a steward in truth, however, so I became king when I was old enough.’

Paragon took this in slowly, a warmth spreading through him. He was not sure exactly why; perhaps it was the strange pleasantness of discovering that they had something of a shared experience.

‘My mother…’ he began, and then paused, frowning. He had been about to tell King Dutiful that Queen Etta was, also, a steward; but it was a little more complex than that, was it not? He tried again.

‘The Pirate Isles throne technically belongs to my father’s line,’ he explained. ‘So it was said when I was born that I would be king when I was old enough, too. But… I don’t know how I would do that if my mother were still there. It seems impossible that anyone would treat her like anything other than a queen.’

The explanation was not quite right, but King Dutiful seemed to understand anyway.

‘How old will you have to be?’ he asked quietly.

‘I don’t know,’ Paragon admitted. ‘No one really talks about it. I don’t want to let anyone down, but… I’m a man in the south when I’m fifteen. I would still be a crewman on the Vivacia then, if I make it from ship’s boy to crewman. I’d have to give that up, I suppose – and then someone else would have to captain the Vivacia after Wintrow… and so many people support mother. I mean, I know my father was technically the first king, but he died before anything had really happened. I feel like…’ he took a breath, ‘…like it’s my mother’s country. And not in a bad way. I feel like it should be. My father started it, but my mother made it work. It doesn’t seem fair that I should take over just fifteen years later, just because I’m the right bloodline.’

He lapsed into silence. A part of him wondered if he should be discussing this with someone else; he had not mentioned any of these thoughts to his mother or Wintrow, or even the Vivacia though she had an uncanny way of knowing about this sort of thing. But it had been said, now. There was no taking it back. And there was no doubt in his mind that it was absolutely true.

King Dutiful tipped his head back, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling for a few moments. Then he looked back down.

‘I was made King-in-Waiting when I was sixteen,’ he said. ‘I had been trained for it my entire life. And I was already married to Elliania. Two years later, after much work, I took my mother’s place on the throne.’ He shifted his weight. ‘It felt as though the whole court relaxed. My mother was much-loved, but she was a foreigner. After the tumult of the Red Ship War, my childhood was constant tension, as though the entirety of the Six Duchies was holding its breath. Waiting for another Farseer on the throne, whoever he or she was and however old, or young, or inexperienced they might be. When I took the position, the entire country seemed to start breathing again. As though they could deal with any kind of monarch, regardless of ability, as long as they were a Farseer.’ He gave an odd little smile. ‘Strange, when you think about it. There’s not anything about me that makes me better suited to the role than anyone else, save what I was taught as I grew. And certainly, my mother was a wonderful queen; but it would have been unthinkable for her to have stayed on the throne once I came of age.’

He looked directly at Paragon, his expression considering.

‘The Pirate Isles is new; for you, your people, everything is that much more flexible. I cannot say I know what I would do in your place, or your mother’s – but I think it is a very different place to the Six Duchies. Here, in the Six Duchies, it is continuity that we rely upon. Farseers have been the monarchs of the Six Duchies since its inception. For an outsider to be anything higher than steward is, as I said, unthinkable. But your mother… I would not call her an outsider. Not at all. So it is strange. Different.’

He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair thoughtfully. Paragon thought over his words slowly, surprised at how well they articulated and matched his own.

‘Something to give some thought to, perhaps,’ King Dutiful said eventually. ‘But I’m afraid that for now, I must get back to work.’ He smiled ruefully, and Paragon stood as he did. ‘I will let you know the moment I find out when we can leave. In the meantime, is there anything you need?’

Paragon thought a moment, and then shook his head.   
  
‘No, thank you my lord,’ he said, returning to formality. ‘Everything is very pleasant here for me.’

King Dutiful nodded, and bade him have a good afternoon, and Paragon left. He walked the corridors which were growing slowly familiar back to his room, his thoughts in a tumult.


	7. Home

The message came later that afternoon by page, a young girl. Prince Paragon was to leave with King Dutiful in two week’s time.

The next few days passed slowly; Teg and Prosper visited each day, but they kept their socialising quiet and steady, and mostly to Paragon’s chambers. They said nothing of what had happened on the tower top, still. After four days, Paragon was measured for new clothes; warmer ones, he understood, for the journey to Shoaks Duchy.

Feeling a little more prepared to face the world, and bundled up in a warm cloak and several layers beneath it, he joined Teg and Prosper to see their guardsman training in the courtyard one afternoon. It was very educational – Teg was training to be an archer but still had to practice his swordsmanship, so his training was divided between the two. The practice sticks were heavy, and of different weights. Teg worked against other boys and girls of his age. It looked like fun, though of the exhausting kind. Paragon had been taught to fight by his mother, who he knew had a fearsome reputation. But he practiced with her, or sometimes with Wintrow, not with others his age. And he had been taught to fight sparingly. This was an altogether different kind of training.

Prosper, across the courtyard, practiced with a sword rather than a stick. It was blunted, but still long and heavy enough to do serious damage. Those in his group drilled individually at first, and then worked in pairs with their teacher moving between them. Both Prosper and Teg seemed to do well amongst their peers; Prosper was one of the best of his group, and although Teg seemed further down in the rankings as compared to the others his age he worked in good spirits. Paragon wondered what his mother would think of their fighting style, so clearly designed for fighting lengthy battles on land rather than the swift deck-fights that were almost as much with the sea as they were with the enemy that he had heard described to him.

When the training was over, Teg flopped down onto the low wall Paragon was leaning against, his dark hair stuck to his brow but his expression cheerful.

‘I’m done for the day,’ he said. ‘Prosper’s got more work, but we don’t need to wait for him, he’ll be ages – and he’s got to meet with father later. We can go and do something.’

‘Stones?’ Paragon offered. Teg shrugged and agreed, but said he would change his clothes first and meet Paragon in the keep’s library.

Half an hour later, they were the only people in there. As they began the game, Teg spoke.

‘How are you?’ he asked carefully. Paragon could tell from his tone that he was not asking the question casually, and so took his time to consider his answer before responding.

‘I’m… not too bad,’ he answered. ‘I still get shaky on and off, though the healers say that it will go with time. And I had another…’ what had it been? ‘… moment, like in the Queen’s Garden. It was in my room.’ Paragon looked down, concentrating on the stones, willing himself not to be embarrassed. He had nothing to be ashamed of, he told himself, recalling what Riddle had told him after the second time.

Teg did not answer immediately, but when he did his voice was not judgemental.

‘I hope that stops, too,’ he said. ‘It looked really – I mean, it looked like it was a really hard thing to go through. You’re brave.’ 

He said the words so calmly and simply, but they lifted Paragon’s heart a little. He looked up and smiled at the other prince. Teg smiled back, and they continued with their game.

~

The next two weeks passed incredibly slowly. Paragon felt that he spent weeks, not hours, in the library with Prosper and Teg each afternoon. He tried to distract himself and make the time go faster by burying himself in the histories of the Six Duchies. It was interesting reading, at least – the texts in the south were normally histories by the priests of Sa, who had the tendency to insert a lot of long, pious reflections after (and sometimes in the middle of) every event that had the potential to be interesting. And the Jamaillian texts centred strongly on the decisions of the Satrap of the time. These histories were… broader. They were clearly influenced by the monarchs of the time, but they were compilations of records rather than one pure, single telling. Scribes and minstrels and nobles and monarchs all kept records. Some of them overlapped or mildly contradicted each other. When Prosper had a free moment he would come to see what Paragon was reading and offer possible explanations for certain inconsistencies, not in a way that brushed them off but in a way that made them show up the world they had been written in. It was fascinating. Some of them were told like stories, others lists of dry facts. The Duchian characters grew easier to understand the more he read, and Paragon enjoyed this new ability immensely.

He had three more attacks before they left Buck; two were private, at night, and he curled up in the bedclothes and shook by himself until they passed. The other was with Teg in the library, but it was not quite as bad as the others. The younger prince sat with him, a hand on his shoulder, talking to him quietly as the fear flowed through him. Teg did not stop talking once Paragon was feeling calmer, chattering on at a steady rate about all sorts of things – the distraction was soothing, and Paragon appreciated that Teg never seemed to think less of him for these moments.

Finally, it was the day before their departure.

They were packed, and ready. Teg had reportedly been badgering his father to let he and his brother come with them, at least as far as Shoaks. King Dutiful had refused, on the premise that they still had their lessons here and he would have enough to deal with without the two of them. But he said it kindly, and Teg and Prosper accepted the denial with good grace.

Paragon spent his last afternoon (for they were to leave first thing the next morning) in his chambers with Teg and Prosper, who had been released from their studies early. They played a few games of stones; Paragon felt he was getting rather good at it now, though he had only won one or two games against the other two. Teg had won the last game, and instead of restarting the three of them had fallen first into conversation, and then into silence. After a few minutes, Teg broke it.

‘Are you looking forward to going home?’

Paragon nodded at once, and then felt a little guilty.

‘It’s good here,’ he said. ‘And I would like to be able to visit again – but I miss home. I miss the Cursed Shores, and the Vivacia, and my mother and Wintrow.’ He swallowed back the bitterness in his throat. Over the last few weeks he had become more practiced at not conceding to the horrible longing that lingered constantly at the back of his mind.

Prosper nodded; Teg shrugged.

‘Then I’m glad you’re going,’ he said frankly. ‘But we’ll miss your company. We have our friends, of course, but it’s not quite the same. I mean, with ranks. I’m glad we met you.’

Paragon looked up at him, a smile coming to his face.

‘I am glad to have met both of you too,’ he answered.

‘Well, obviously – this place would be extremely boring without us, you know.’ Teg grinned as Paragon laughingly agreed, and Prosper rolled his eyes fondly.

~

The next morning dawned drizzly and cold. Paragon got himself up and dressed, and Riddle helped him be sure he had everything he needed. He had been given some practice on the horseback during his last week, and felt that this journey would at least be better than the one into Buck. The binding on his ribs might be able to be removed on their way, at some point, depending on how well they had healed. The small pack of clothes and necessities that King Dutiful had gifted to him were stored with the rest of the group’s belongings, but Paragon carried with him a small pouch containing what was needed to continue treating the scars on his face and the pain in his ribs. It also contained a small flint arrowhead from Teg, which he had said was a good luck charm. Paragon gathered from Prosper’s smile that this was perhaps something that Teg himself had invented, but that did not matter. He was grateful for it all the same.

The journey to Shoaks was slow. Paragon kept his focus on keeping his balance on the calm horse he was riding, partly because it was still a difficult thing to do, and partly because he did not want to get lost in the broad landscape the way he had in the Queen’s Garden again. He built his nerve as the days passed, and found he could observe the forests and fields without having an attack at all. Perhaps it was because he knew he was going home.

He fought hard not to think about having to go back through Chalcedean waters again, and in the daytime was normally successful. But at night, memories and imaginings would creep into his mind. He knew he tossed and turned in his sleep, but he must have managed to keep himself quiet for it did not seem as though he ever disturbed anyone. He did notice that Riddle was keeping a close eye on him, though. He had two more attacks before they reached the port from which they were to depart, both in the night. They were harder to deal with out in the cold, and Paragon longed for southern warmth to soak into his bones again.

He felt more both more comfortable and more afraid when they boarded the Duchian ship. It was a strange vessel to Paragon’s eyes, much smaller and squatter than the ships of the Traders or even the Chalcedeans. It was good to be on deck again, to feel the reassuring movement of the wood beneath his feet, even as he missed the intuitive smoothness of a Liveship’s passage through the water. And it was achingly hard to do nothing, no tasks or errands, as they made their way out of Duchian territory and into Chalcedean waters.

King Dutiful tried hard to keep him occupied, engaging him in long conversations each afternoon. Paragon described for him the work he did on the Vivacia; in turn, King Dutiful told him stories of his childhood at Buckkeep. Paragon spoke of the strange wares he had seen in the markets of Bingtown, and King Dutiful the artistry of the folk of the Mountain Kingdom. Paragon tried to describe the white spires of Jamaillia, and how the air itself seemed to waver on hot days, and King Dutiful described the ice floes and blue waters of the God Runes. It worked for a time. And although the rain came faintly to begin with, the weather soon began to improve. Paragon spent as much time as possible up on deck in the air, not looking forward to spending time below decks as they passed Chalced. When the time came, King Dutiful joined him for as much of it as he could. When he was left alone, Paragon often succumbed to the temptation of inspecting the scarring on his face in the glass. The healers had done their work well; the skin was scarred, but the lines and shapes were very blurred. No one could read them unless they already knew what they said. Before they had left, the healers had told him that it was likely that aside from some unevenness the scars would disappear entirely. With time.

‘Are there ships out there?’ Paragon asked, almost every day. Sometimes more than once. King Dutiful never gave any sign of being wearied by the question. There normally were not, but half-way through their passing three ships held vigil, just out of hailing distance. They made no move to attack, but the occupants of the Duchian ship remained tense until they were completely out of sight. That night, Paragon’s dreams were sharp and vivid, and he frightened himself awake only to lie, shuddering, in his berth.

At last there was a sweet morning when, leaning on the bow and watching the coastline pass, Paragon spotted the opening of the bay that led around to the Rain Wild River.

‘King Dutiful!’ he called. The older man came to him at once, and Paragon pointed it out. King Dutiful shook his head in wonder.

‘Now there’s a sight,’ he said softly, and Paragon realised that it must be as strange for King Dutiful to gaze upon the tremendously tall trees of the Rain Wilds as it was for Paragon to gaze out over the disconcertingly flat land of the Six Duchies. He felt the keenness of hope rise in his heart. He was nearly home.

It was an agonisingly long time before Paragon glimpsed the familiar arms of Trader Bay. He spent every moment not eating or sleeping out on deck, staring forward in anticipation, feeling the salt wind on his face reassure him that he was safe in a way that nothing had since he had been taken from the Vivacia. He reluctantly went below decks as they approached, knowing that King Dutiful’s decision was sensible. Paragon would wait on the ship initially while King Dutiful spoke to the Traders and asked for news of the Vivacia or Queen Etta. He intended to only tell them that he had a message he must convey to her personally, primarily to avoid any rumours spreading and losing all of their original meaning. It would not do, he said, to have any misunderstandings about their intentions. He intended to either find Queen Etta or King Wintrow and hand Paragon over to them in person, or discover when and where they might do so.

The approach was slow, but finally they were there. Paragon could hear the sounds of the sailors working from below decks. As the ship docked and King Dutiful gathered himself, Paragon found himself wishing him good luck. King Dutiful smiled at him.

‘It won’t be long, Prince Paragon,’ he said. ‘I shall stay by the ship for now, and Riddle will come and keep you updated of anything that happens.’

Paragon nodded, and leaned back against the edge of the table, resigning himself to a long and frustrating wait.

~

They were only a minute out of the dock when they heard the shout. Wintrow turned, and frowned at the signals.

‘What is it?’ Etta asked quietly, having missed the start.

‘They’re calling us back to the dock,’ Wintrow said. He sighed in frustration. As much as he wanted to stay in Bingtown, to be as close as possible to Paragon in case chance called them to Chalced, he knew travelling back to the Pirate Isles was necessary. The Motley should pass them en route and would wait in Bingtown for news, while the Vivacia returned her queen to her country. Despite the determined efforts of Captain Sorcor and the rest of the fleet, there were many matters awaiting her attention – and Wintrow’s. The decision had been made. Wintrow hated it, but he hated more this back-and-forth after a path had been taken. He knew it would be harder to cast off a second time.

Reluctantly, he called the orders back to the crew, and after a few minutes the Vivacia returned to her place in the docks. Wintrow disembarked behind Etta as a panting Trader in her formal robe reached the dock.

‘Queen Etta, King Wintrow,’ she managed, giving a perfunctory curtsey. ‘I’m so glad we reached you before you left. King Dutiful of the Six Duchies has just this moment arrived, and requested to speak with you immediately.’

Wintrow fought the urge to exchange an incredulous look with Etta. The King of the Six Duchies? The other southern countries had little contact with the duchies, and the Pirate Isles none at all. What would a Duchian king want to speak to them for?

Etta must have shared his confusion, for it took her a moment to respond.

‘Where is he?’ she asked, the only possible question.

‘He’s waiting by his ship, this way.’ The Trader nodded to them both politely, and turned and hastened away along the dock. Etta and Wintrow followed. Etta glanced once at Wintrow; her brow was furrowed slightly, in concern or confusion Wintrow was not certain.

The Duchian ship stood out from those around it; a different design, clearly more designed for coastline journeys than the wider seas. It sat low in the water. But it was smoothly designed, and bore clearly a coat of arms: a stag on a blue field. Wintrow recognised it as the coat of arms of the royal family, but did not know more than that. Standing beside the ship, looking very calm amongst the harried and nervous gathering of Traders who had clearly been summoned in haste to greet him, was a man of around Wintrow’s age. He had mid-brown skin and darker eyes, and he was looking around himself and observing what he could see of Bingtown with pleased curiosity. Every now and then he nodded or spoke some return to one of the Traders. As Etta and Wintrow approached, he spotted them and turned to see them better. He wore the same blue as the colour hanging from the ship.

When they reached the party a Trader began to fumble towards introductions, but the man in blue spoke swiftly.

‘No need, no need,’ he said politely. ‘It is my fault; we have come upon you all so suddenly and made demands. Please. Queen Etta, I presume?’ He tilted his head towards her politely.

Etta did not nod, but answered him.

‘You presume correctly. You must be King Dutiful. This is King Wintrow,’ she answered. Her tone was neutral, neither disapproving nor welcoming. Wintrow gave a bow and then continued to watch the northern king. His accent was small and his voice clear and calm.

‘I apologise for having summoned you so abruptly,’ he said. ‘It is very inappropriate of me, I am aware. However, I felt that delaying at all would have been… even more so.’

Wintrow frowned as a small smile quirked the king’s lips.

‘I’m afraid I do not understand, King Dutiful.’ Etta’s voice was still steady, but the frustration was there under the surface.

‘I am sorry; a moment.’ King Dutiful turned his head and spoke in swift Duchian to a man on deck, who disappeared below. There was a pause, and then he spoke again in the direction of the ship – this time, in Jamaillian.

‘There, that wasn’t as long a wait as we were expecting. Go on, then.’ His last words were kind and more informal. A head of dark hair emerged from the ship, and then –

‘Mother! Wintrow!’

~

At Riddle’s call, Paragon had climbed up from below decks, anticipation and hope in his heart, to emerge into the Bingtown sunlight. There, on the docks with a crowd of robed Traders, were –

‘Mother! Wintrow!’

Paragon forgot his lessons about princely dignity, and all but ran over the short bit of deck before scrambling down onto the dock. His mother had her hand over her mouth and Paragon thought he had never seen Wintrow look quite so stunned before. In moments he was in his mother’s arms, and she was holding him so tightly that his ribs almost hurt but he did not care.

‘Oh, Paragon, oh my son, Paragon –’ She was murmuring into his hair, and Paragon was not sure if he wanted to cry with relief or laugh with delight. After a moment he felt Wintrow’s hand grip his shoulder as if to see if he was real; and then Etta pulled back from him to look at him, wonder on her face. He smiled sheepishly.

‘I’m all right, ma,’ he said quietly. She did not say anything, just pulled him into her embrace again. Wintrow’s hand was still on his shoulder, and after a minute it was Paragon who pulled away from his mother to turn and embrace Wintrow, too. Paragon’s captain held him tightly and then released him back to his mother, watching him with mixture of pride and wonder on his face.

They had almost forgotten the Traders and the Duchians were there. After a few more minutes of holding onto each other, Paragon turned to see King Dutiful and the Traders smiling at him, the latter surprised and the former satisfied. Both Wintrow and his mother kept hold of him; his mother spoke first.

‘King Dutiful, I –’ she let out a little huff of laughter that Paragon knew was rare for her ‘I don’t know how to thank you, or what to say – what – I…’ she shook her head and looked to Wintrow, who managed to get his words together.

‘What brought you so far south, King Dutiful?’ he asked, clearly reaching for some understanding of the situation. King Dutiful smiled.

‘Just bringing Paragon home,’ he said. ‘We’ll be gone from here when the tide turns – we had little time to prepare for my absence, and I must make it as short as I can. I’m sure you understand.’

The southerners, bar Paragon, were all staring at him in surprise.

‘Just for Paragon?’ Wintrow asked, his voice politely incredulous. ‘It must be a month or more’s journey back to the Six Duchies.’

King Dutiful shrugged.

‘About a month, yes,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t let him wander home alone, could we? The Chalcedeans don’t normally bother a Duchian flagship these days, they rely on our trade too heavily. And…’ he paused, and his eyes met Etta’s. ‘Queen Etta, I have two sons of my own. One fourteen, the other eleven. If they were lost out there in the world, I… I know what I would want another to do.’

Paragon felt his mother’s grip on him tighten slightly.

‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice quiet, solemn and sincere.

The gratitude seemed to hang in the air; King Dutiful acknowledged her thanks with a nod, his expression equally serious.

‘You are very welcome, my lady.’

Paragon closed his eyes briefly, enjoying the sunshine. He felt unbelievably happy. When he opened them again, Wintrow was speaking.

‘King Dutiful, is there anything we can – I mean, I don’t wish to be rude but neither would we wish to neglect –’ he paused, a little tongue tied, and tried again. ‘Is there anything we can do for you?’ he asked simple. Paragon looked at Wintrow and then back at King Dutiful. He had never known Wintrow to be at a loss for words, but it seemed fitting for this day.

King Dutiful was already shaking his head.

‘Very kind, but quite unnecessary,’ he answered kindly. ‘No, we just need to resupply the ship and wait for the tide, and then we’ll be on our way home.’

Paragon turned his head again to see Wintrow and then his mother as they exchanged looks. Etta nodded.

‘King Dutiful,’ she said, ‘at least allow us to arrange your resupply. You will have few contacts here, and we are much more familiar.’

King Dutiful looked hesitant, as though he were about to protest. Etta spoke again.

‘I insist,’ she said gently. ‘It’s the least we can do. And besides, that would mean that while that’s being arranged we can take lunch together. We will not delay your departure, but you should see a little of Bingtown while you’re here. Please.’

Paragon watched King Dutiful as the man considered the situation, and eventually conceded to his mother’s words.

‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘I would be most grateful. As you say, it is much easier for you to arrange than for us.’

And so it was arranged; Riddle remained behind to deal with the restocking of the Duchian ship, to be helped by the Vivacia’s hastily summoned first mate. Paragon, his mother, Wintrow and King Dutiful made their way towards the town and the market. Paragon revelled in the feel of the air, the warmth; he missed the odd mugginess of the Pirate Isles, too, but this was enough for now.

‘King Dutiful, are you sure there’s nothing further we can do for you?’ Wintrow asked. King Dutiful gave a small laugh.

‘Your thanks is enough; I’m glad to see Paragon safe. Though, there is something I would like to ask of Prince Paragon.’

Paragon looked at King Dutiful, determined that he would be able to help with whatever it was. King Dutiful smiled at him.

‘I promised my boys that I would bring them something back from my travels,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose, Prince Paragon, you would know what an eleven year old and a fourteen year old boy might like that I could buy in the Bingtown Trader’s market?’

Paragon grinned back, delighted, already thinking of possibilities.

‘I think I could help with that, my lord,’ he answered, and Wintrow and his mother laughed.

~

They did not hurry through the streets; Wintrow was torn between watching King Dutiful’s reactions to Bingtown and attending to his remarks, and constantly looking to check that Paragon was still there. He felt unbelievably happy and at peace, and everything around him seemed brighter than it had in months. When they reached the market, Paragon darted a little way ahead to peer at all the stalls, pausing every now and then to inspect something in more detail.

‘Ah, King Wintrow,’ King Dutiful said quietly as they walked. ‘I recall; I understand from Prince Paragon that I should give this to you rather than Queen Etta.’ He brought out a small, plain wooden box from inside his tunic. Wintrow took it, aware of Etta’s curious gaze.

‘What is it, my lord?’ he asked.

‘Hm. I’m not sure of the word in Jamaillian, exactly. Healer’s box?’ He shrugged. ‘It contains a description of the injuries Prince Paragon bore when we found him, how he was treated, and a small supply in case such things do not have swiftly available counterparts in the south.’

Wintrow nodded, understanding.  
  
‘Thank you,’ he said, slipping it into a pocket. There was a pause, all three adults watching Paragon pour over a stall selling wooden puzzles. Then Etta spoke softly.

‘Was he badly hurt?’ she asked. King Dutiful sighed.

‘Two fractured ribs, which have healed nicely,’ he answered in a low voice, ‘cuts and bruises, some nastier than others. And of course, I’m sure you’re familiar with… shall we say… standard Chalcadean transportation conditions.’

Something cold and sharp seemed to blossom in Wintrow’s heart at those words; he fought not to imagine Paragon in those conditions. King Dutiful’s voice was ice hard. There was a moment’s silence between them in the crowded market, and then the Duchian king spoke again in a lighter tone.

‘It’s hard for me to be certain, of course, as I didn’t know him before,’ he said. ‘But he does seem to have recovered well. And I know that Prosper and Teg were sad to see him go.’

‘Your sons?’ Etta asked. King Dutiful nodded.

‘Prosper’s the elder, at fourteen – Teg, Integrity, is eleven. They don’t often meet anyone from the south; I think they all enjoyed each other’s company.’

The hours passed swiftly and pleasantly; King Dutiful engaged all three of them in questions about Bingtown, which Paragon answered with no small amount of excitement. He seemed to be buzzing to be back in Bingtown, and it was easy to understand why. He also seemed to look up to King Dutiful a little, too; Wintrow thought that was interesting, and resolved to ask Paragon to tell him more about the Duchian king later. When Paragon was occupied greeting Wintrow’s mother and grandmother, who had heard of his reappearance and arrived at the café to shower him with affection, Dutiful asked for details of the ship that had taken Paragon and told them what information he had himself. He reassured them that he was looking into the matter, and would send any relevant information to them; it was of particular importance to him as Paragon’s captors had somehow managed to smuggle him not just over the Chalced-Shoaks border but across two Duchies without being detected. All three of them agreed that this was extremely strange.

‘Speaking of strange,’ King Dutiful said cautiously as Paragon rejoined the table waving farewell to Wintrow’s family, ‘there is something I would ask of you.’

Wintrow raised his eyebrows.

‘Go on,’ Etta said curiously.

‘Well, ask you about, actually. It is… difficult, as I have almost no specifics…’ Dutiful paused for a moment, looking frustrated, and the seemed to come to a decision. ‘A few months ago, the Six Duchies had a… minor incursion. The home of one of my nobles was attacked, and her sister was abducted. The attackers also killed almost a dozen servants, and injured more. We tracked their party down swiftly and returned the girl to her farther unharmed, but her captors vanished.’ King Dutiful shifted uncomfortably. ‘We don’t know where they have gone, or even if they have remained in the Six Duchies or not. Wherever they went they have left not trace of their passage. They would be a party of about twenty, with unusual dress – and we know that they came from the far south, with the same origin as the Great Fleet that I understand occasionally visits Jamaillia.’ Wintrow took this in, running through the information in his mind. Paragon was watching the conversation in wide-eyed silence.

‘They slipped into the Six Duchies,’ continued King Dutiful, ‘and killed my people without even the whisper of a warning or rumour of their coming reaching my ears, and disappeared likewise. I have those they attacked well-protected, but I am concerned that I cannot defend against that which I cannot follow. I would warn you of their presence in the North; and I would ask if you know of any such party travelling through your waters.’

Wintrow thought back, carefully recalling reports he had heard, news from the time… nothing. He shook his head as Etta answered.

‘Not that I recall, King Dutiful,’ she said. ‘But we’d be more than happy to pass on anything we do hear.’

‘You have my thanks. I’m only sorry I cannot give you more information that that.’

Wintrow nodded.

‘If they head south again, we may be able to hear of them,’ he said. ‘We keep a close track on people passing the whole of the Inner Passage. But if they’re with the Great Fleet – those ships are designed for the open ocean. There’s nothing to stop them taking the Outer Passage, and there they’d be entirely out of our reach.’

‘I understand.’

They fell to silence again, until Paragon launched the conversation again, talking about the presents they had bought for the Duchian princes – a set of inks for Prosper in strange bright colours and a little set of tricks for Prince Integrity that King Dutiful said would ‘delight him, and madden everyone else’. He had bought them anyway, smiling fondly. King Dutiful had bought other things as well, all small and none particularly expensive: a selection of teas, a rather lovely silk scarf, some cloth which was ordered to the ship, another set of bright inks and some good paper, and a small collection of southern foods that Wintrow and Etta assured him would store well.

Eventually, they made their way back down to the docks. The Duchian oarship was waiting for them, ready to leave, and they said their farewells.

‘I know we’re not official allies,’ King Dutiful said, ‘but I want you to understand that you would be more than welcome to visit at any time – Chalcedeans notwithstanding, of course.’ They all laughed quietly, but Wintrow thought Paragon sounded a little nervous and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

‘Likewise to you, King Dutiful – you are welcome in Pirate Isles waters,’ Etta returned.

Once all the farewells were done, King Dutiful boarded his oarship and they left the docks. Etta, Wintrow and Paragon remained there, watching them shrink as they moved out into the bay and then further on, until they were a small dot on the horizon.

Etta pulled Paragon a little closer to her.

‘Back to the Vivacia?’ she said. ‘You look exhausted, and it’s not far off dusk. We can go back, get you cleaned up and something to eat, and then bed.’

She was firm and calm the way she had been when Paragon had been much younger, and Wintrow could see him take reassurance from it and nod. The boy did look exhausted.

The three of them made their way back along the docks to the Vivacia.

~

Paragon yawned and stretched, trying to get comfortable in his berth. It was so good to be home. There had been a great deal of shouting and cheering when he had reached the Vivacia; the figurehead had been beaming. Paragon had had to turn circles to show off his Duchian garments, all in black and red, and have his hair ruffled and his back thumped and his shoulders squeezed. His eyes closed, Paragon grinned to remember it – the joy had been infectious. It lasted until Etta had rescued him from the crew, which had been a relief because Paragon was so very tired. It had been a longer day than he was used to.

He turned a little, moving under the blanket and shoving the pillow to a better position. The exhaustion was stronger than the excitement of seeing everyone, and soon overwhelmed him. He slept deeply.

~

_The world was dark and wooden, and every movement brought pain. Something smelt terrible, dank and unclean and he knew it was him. His muscles ached, why couldn’t he move – he had been able to turn around on the ship. He wasn’t on the ship, he was in the cart again, tucked inside the compartment in the floor with the lid closed shut above him. Like a coffin. He couldn’t move. But it was okay, wasn’t it? They’d done this once before, and then again when King Dutiful had –_

_The world was silent. Somehow Paragon knew that there was no one there. No Chalcedeans, no Duchians, no one at all. No one to let him out or even know he was there. He tried to make a sound, but he couldn’t make it loud enough to be heard through the wood. They had left him here. Left him, and he was never getting out, he was never getting out, he was never getting –_

‘No! No, no, no, no…’ Paragon heard the word for a few seconds before realising it was coming from his own lips. He was sweating and he had pulled himself to sit upright on his bed with his knees under his chin. He wrapped his arms around his legs, rocking back and forth a little, trembling, the word still coming. ‘No, no, no, no…’

There was a knock on the door.

‘Paragon?’

‘Ma? Mama?’ Paragon did not care about the childish word, fear still thrumming through him. The door was opened, and Etta came in with Wintrow just behind her. She was instantly at his side, sitting down and pulling him into her arms, rocking him gently in silence until his shaking stopped. When Paragon looked up, Wintrow had closed the door and joined Etta and Paragon on the bed. But as he ever had when Paragon had been small, he sat carefully on the edge, a polite distance away. _Like a stranger._ Paragon sniffed, becoming aware that he was still clutching at his mother like a much younger child.

‘I’m s-sorry. I’m sorry.’ The words trickled out; he had no idea what he was sorry for. Sorry that it hurt, perhaps. Sorry that he was frightened. His mother stroked his hair.

‘Shh, it’s all right, there’s nothing wrong with crying,’ she said. Paragon swallowed. He was calming with his mother here, but there was something not right about this.

‘I’m, ‘m sorry…’ he murmured without really thinking. He was looking at Wintrow, still perched a foot away from Etta and Paragon on the edge of the bed. The older man gave him a gentle, reassuring smile.

‘Your mother’s right, you know,’ he said. How many times had Paragon heard him say that before?

‘Why do you do that? Go out of your way to not say, to never say you’re part of our family? Why do you always do that?’ Paragon felt the words spill out of him, and he was not sure exactly why; he was only sure that something was not right, and perhaps that he had thought about this before and it was coming out now so that he did not have to think about the nightmares.

Wintrow looked confused, and then a little wary. He licked his lips, and spoke.

‘Paragon I – I’m not trying to hurt you. But I’m not your father –’

‘But you’re all I’ve got. I missed you as much as I missed ma. And you won’t even act like you care.’ The words hung there in the air; a part of Paragon regretted them instantly, but another part of him was watching Wintrow’s face – it had shown hurt for a brief moment before returning to its usual calm. Wintrow opened his mouth as if to speak, and then closed it again. Paragon knew he should not have said it, but he could not take it back now. And it was true. Wintrow always did this. He had raised Paragon as much as his mother had but whenever there was a moment like this, he stepped back. Like he did not want to get too involved. Nothing had recently changed; but Paragon felt the old hurt boiling over, as though he could only hold so many upsetting things inside him at once. And he would not talk about his nightmares or his attacks or his journey to the north, so this would be it.

‘Paragon –’

Paragon cut across his mother’s words.

‘Sorry I woke you up, I’m fine now and I’m going to go back to sleep.’ He pulled himself out of his mother’s embrace and laid back down on his bed, facing away from both of them. He wondered if they were exchanging looks behind his back, and tried not to care. He just wanted them to both leave him alone before something even worse came tumbling out of his mouth.

‘All right,’ his mother said, sounding concerned. ‘Sleep well, and we’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Yes ma.’ Paragon heard them get up and start moving to the door.

‘Just call if you need us, Vivacia will hear.’ Wintrow’s voice was calm, and controlled. Paragon felt a hot swell of anger. _He really doesn’t care._

‘Yes sir,’ he said. He heard an indrawn breath, but neither Wintrow nor his mother said anything in reply before the left the room. The door clicked shut.

Alone, Paragon felt a thousand times worse. But he was silent as the hot tears ran onto the blankets.


	8. Vinegar and Honey

‘Can we talk, for a few minutes? I’d… like your advice.’

‘Of course.’

Fitz stepped inside, watching the Fool carefully. The slight man was curled up like a cat in the chair by the fire, watching the flames. He had that curious, entranced expression on his face again. Fitz tried to imagine what it would be like, to see again after so long of sightlessness. His imagination failed him, and only a lingering sense of strangeness came as he observed his old friend. The Fool looked up at him; and then rose, and walked carefully over to stand a few feet in front of him. His balance was better now, his steps surer. Fitz was glad.

‘Fitz?’ he asked softly. ‘What is it?’

Fitz looked away when he realised that he was staring, and lined up his prepared words carefully in his mind before looking back and meeting the Fool’s eyes.

‘I have… done something,’ he began. ‘It was intended well. But I did not explain myself, and now I am concerned that the other person may be angry, or hurt, that I did not explain myself. Because if I had, they may have made a different decision. I don’t mind the decision they made, but they made it without…’ He faltered. The Fool’s eyes had darkened strangely when they had healed, and his obsidian gaze was as strange as it had been when it had been colourless. The Fool’s brow was creased, but he gave a faint, uncertain smile.

‘Perhaps you should explain?’

Fitz spoke suddenly, pushing the words out.

‘Why did you call me Beloved?’ he asked.

It was as though the fire and the candles had all been swept out in a breath. The Fool’s eyes widened and his mouth tightened.

‘Fitz, that is not a kind question.’ The words were cool and hard. Fitz held the Fool’s gaze.

‘Why? If you’d have me ask thrice, I shall,’ he said. The Fool was motionless for a moment and then turned, taking several slow steps to stand in front of the painted wall. When he turned back, his expression was as unreadable as stone.

‘Fool. When we were last living in Buckkeep, why did you call me Beloved?’ Fitz knew the answer that he had been given before, but he wanted the truth. And he would never believe her before he believed the Fool. A disapproving voice in his head told him that he had at the time, and that now he was being cruel only to allow himself to feel more certain.

‘Among my people, the exchange of names denotes a life-bond. Someone you love more than anything. Whether they be lover or friend or kin.’ The Fool’s voice was flat, but when Fitz nodded his eyes narrowed.

‘You knew? You knew, how could you…’ He paled. ‘She told you.’ His voice scratched into a whisper before he silenced himself. Fitz gave a nod, and looked down.

‘I think she thought I’d think less of you,’ he said softly. ‘I did not. I wished I had understood before, though.’

A little warmth seemed to seep back into the room. When Fitz looked up again, the Fool had turned away as though to gaze at Bee’s painted field. Fitz steeled himself, and continued.

‘I tried naming you. When we were in the warm, before I – before you –’ he swallowed and recovered his words, but the Fool finished his sentence for him.

‘When I was dead.’

‘Yes. On your pyre, I named you – FitzChivalry Farseer.’ Fitz felt the bitterness rise up in his chest at the memory, tainting his words even as he saw the Fool become suddenly, absolutely, still. ‘It was wrong. It wasn’t… it was wrong.’ Fitz looked away again. ‘It’s not that I didn’t – I wanted you to have… but not that name. It’s not a name. It’s a brand. It stung so much when I was young, and I should never have tried to give that to you. It would be like giving my pain to you. I wouldn’t – I don’t want to do that.’

He looked up again. The Fool was watching him, his dark eyes glittering strangely, but otherwise expressionless. He met his eyes.

‘If you had called me Fool,’ he said, ‘then I would have called you Fitz. Given you it. But you didn’t. You gave me Beloved, the name your mother gave you. So… when the moment came, I… I gave you Keppet. The name my mother gave me.’

Fitz’s eyes were focused absolutely on the Fool’s, but he saw the other man’s mouth open slightly with an indrawn breath, saw his eyes widen in something Fitz did not entirely understand. Fitz swallowed, and finished what he had to say.

‘I should have told you what it was,’ he said. ‘I wanted you to have it, and I don’t regret that. But I should have told you before you chose to use it among others. I understand if you want to change it…’

‘Do you want me to?’ The suddenness of the question prompted Fitz’s swift answer.

‘No. I mean, I don’t… I don’t mind how you use it. I don’t use it. I gave it to you, and you can use it how you will.’

The silence stretched. Then the Fool’s lips moved.

‘I would keep using it, if you truly…’

‘I do.’

The Fool nodded. He was looking at Fitz as though he had never seen him before.

‘I think I know you so well,’ he murmured, ‘and then you surprise me.’ He gave a tentative smile. ‘I thank you, Fitz. It is a great gift to me.’

The words were oddly formal, and Fitz wondered if they were part of the custom where the Fool was from. He gave a gentle smile back, and remembered something.

‘There is one thing I would ask,’ he said, gesturing to the chairs by the fire. He sat down, and the Fool curled up opposite him.

‘Ask.’

‘The origin of the name… I have never told anyone my name,’ Fitz said hesitantly. ‘Not since you gave it back to me. You and Girl-on-Dragon.’ He watched the Fool’s expression of sudden comprehension, and then a curious fondness settled on it. He continued. ‘It is a secret. One I would give to you, for your keeping, and for no others.’

The Fool nodded solemnly in the shadows by the fire.

‘I will keep your secret,’ he said softly.

‘Thank you.’

They sat in silence for the rest of the evening, rested enough by each other’s company. One thought occurred to Fitz as he looked across at his oldest friend, and it was hardly a thought at all.

_Beloved and Keppet._

~

Paragon was miserable.

He was home, on the Vivacia, had been for three weeks, and everything should be all right again, but he had spoiled it, he had been so stupid. No, Wintrow had spoiled it. Or mother, not intervening. No, it had been his own fault, acting like a silly child just because of some bad dreams. He was to be a man in three years, how was this any way to behave? He felt his frustration build again, the hurt and the anger, as he climbed up the steps to the foredeck. Wintrow had sent him up there ‘to spend some time with the figurehead’. Paragon knew that euphemism. It meant he was being a nuisance, and that Wintrow thought Vivacia would help him cool his temper. He did not want to cool his temper. And it wasn’t even an order, he still wasn’t on duty. Wintrow had looked through the healer’s box that King Dutiful had given him and decided that until Paragon stopped having his shakes he would not go on duty. Rest would do him more good, he said, rest and sea air.

Paragon screwed up his fists as he gained the foredeck. Even Tullen, who had been ecstatic to see him back initially, avoided him now. His mother had told him he was being sulky and stubborn and that he should not expect people to want to spend time with him if he behaved like that, and Paragon had wanted to stamp his foot and shout that that was easy for her to say, she wasn’t struggling to sleep every night, but he had done so well at keeping that to himself that he had refused to allow the words to come out. He had stormed out and slammed the door behind him, though, and Wintrow had begun to chastise him. Paragon had told him that he wasn’t his father so it was none of his business. Wintrow had paled, a little, but still had told him in a calm and reasonable voice that he was the captain and he would not have slammed doors on his ship, regardless of the temper of the person involved. He had sent him to his berth and Paragon had spent all afternoon in there, refusing to come out, pretending to be asleep when his mother looked in on him.

He reached the railing and stood there without leaning on it, his arms folded as though against the cold. He did not intend to touch the wizardwood, and let Vivacia know his feelings; in his berth, he bundled blankets around him and moved pillows so he made no contact with her in his sleep. That was how his mother and Wintrow had known to come to him the first night, and he did not want them coming to him again.

‘It’s a fine morning, Paragon.’ Vivacia’s voice was deep and soft, like a sea-pipe. Paragon shrugged in response. The figurehead twisted to see him, and he looked down at his feet.

‘You scowl as well as your father did.’

At that, Paragon looked up at her. She gave a slow smile.

‘What is it that makes you so dark and sad, then?’

He did not look down this time, but his eyes slid away from hers, and he shrugged again.

‘Hm.’ The figurehead turned back to gaze out over the sea. ‘There’s something about the salt wind that can help cleanse your feelings, if you let it.’

‘Hard to get that down here,’ Paragon muttered before he could stop himself.

‘Really?’ Vivacia replied. ‘You don’t have to be in the rigging to clear your head, Paragon. And even if you do, it won’t be long before Wintrow puts you back on duty again. Your hands hardly shake anymore. Unless, of course, you’ve become too surly to be a decent ship’s boy?’

The last words were a question, and although she wasn’t looking at him Paragon could picture her raised eyebrow. He scuffed his toe lightly on the deck.

‘Captain Vestrit doesn’t care, he’d just get someone else,’ he said, speaking the fear he had been carrying for the last few days. ‘Then he could leave me shut up with mother all day and I wouldn’t be in his way.’

Vivacia was silent for a moment, and Paragon thought he had shocked her.

‘I don’t think that’s true or fair,’ she said carefully. ‘And I think you know that.’

Paragon said nothing, just stared at the boards stubbornly until Tullen was sent to tell him his mother wanted to see him. He did not look at her, knowing he looked childish, but wandered down to his mother’s quarters. He did not hurry, but lingered outside the door, considering just going back to his berth and shutting himself in again. Then the first mate came past and Paragon did not really want to get another look of disappointment, so he knocked.

‘Come.’

Paragon entered, shutting the door behind him.

‘Sit down, Paragon.’ His mother was dressed richly but practically, as always, and was sat comfortably on the large cushions in the corner of the room. She watched him as he walked over to her and sat down cross-legged on the floor.

‘Tell me why you’re upset.’ It wasn’t a command, just mother’s straightforward way of putting things, but Paragon scowled all the same, and shrugged. His mother waited, watching him patiently, but Paragon was not going to let that guilt him into doing what she wanted. Instead, he spoke.

‘Mother, was my father a good man?’

‘Kennit saved many lives and built this kingdom, Paragon.’ The same answer she always gave. Paragon tightened his jaw.

‘Then why is Wintrow so afraid to take his place?’ He had not had the thought until he spoke it, but once the words passed his lips he felt the truth in them click into place. The way it was always his mother who told him about Kennit, never Wintrow. The way Wintrow was always careful to leave a space at his mother’s side, as though another man would step into it.

His mother was silent.

‘Why? It can’t be a secret. I want to know.’

‘It is not yours to know,’ she said softly, as though speaking from a long way away.

Paragon’s anger rose again.

‘But it’s mine,’ he said insistently, ‘my story – he was my father, he’s part of where I came from.’

Etta sighed. ‘Yes, your father’s story is part of yours. But it’s also part of mine, and part of Wintrow’s, and you don’t have a right to those by default.’

‘I see.’ Paragon felt as though his whole body was as taut as a line, though with anger or frustration or fear he was not sure. ‘May I go, mother?’

His mother looked at him for a few moments longer, her concern clear. Then she pursed her lips and conceded.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But be sure you are not underfoot.’

Paragon left, and went straight to his berth, planning to while away the afternoon in there alone.

However, he had been there only an hour or so, flicking mindlessly through an old book, when there was a knock.

‘Paragon?’ Wintrow. ‘May I come in?’

Paragon considered it, and then pulled himself up from lying on his front to sitting on his bed before answering ungraciously.

‘If you like. Sir.’

Wintrow took that for a yes and came inside, closing the door behind him and coming to sit next to Paragon on the bed. There was maybe half a foot between them. It felt like half a mile. Wintrow left a silence for almost a minute before he spoke.

‘What do you to you intend to achieve from this?’ he asked, not looking at Paragon but straight ahead at the planks opposite.

‘I don’t understand, sir.’ The insult was without feeling, but nonetheless Wintrow took a steadying breath before he spoke again.

‘What do you gain? From being like this.’ He paused. ‘Does it make you feel better?’

Paragon chewed his lip, feeling very young and very stupid. He swallowed and answered, very quietly.

‘No.’

Beside him, Wintrow nodded.

‘Hm.’ He did not sound smug or satisfied, but considering. Then he turned to look at Paragon. ‘Paragon… I don’t have any children. I’m not likely to ever have any. I don’t have a point of comparison. But you and Etta… I was part of raising you, lad, I love you. You and Etta are as much my family as Malta or Selden, or my mother or my grandmother…’

Wintrow’s steady, honest voice seemed to cool Paragon’s temper in a way it had not before.

‘Or Aunt Althea or Uncle Brashen?’ he asked quietly, staring at his knees.

‘Or Aunt Althea or Uncle Brashen,’ Wintrow answered, nodding. ‘Yes. I’m not your father, Paragon. But that doesn’t mean I love you any less.’

He put a cautious hand on Paragon’s shoulder; Paragon felt that part of him still wanted to argue, to sulk, to be sullen again – but he hated being at odds with Wintrow. He let his shoulders drop some of their tension.

‘I know.’ He paused, chewing his lip, and then resigned himself to it. ‘I’ve been being… really unfair, haven’t I?’ he said tentatively.

‘Yes, you have.’

Paragon jerked his head up, opening his mouth to defend himself against Wintrow’s matter of fact agreement – and then he saw the slight smile twisting the older man’s lips, the fondness in his eyes, and the urge to fight left him. He lowered his eyes, embarrassed, feeling the guilt rise up inside him.

‘I’m sorry, Wintrow,’ he said. He looked up and met Wintrow’s eyes; Wintrow smiled sadly.

‘I forgive you. I’m sorry too.’

Wintrow moved his hand and drew Paragon into an embrace.

They sat like that for a few minutes, and Paragon realised that his face was damp. When he sniffed, Wintrow shifted to hold onto him better, and gave the shoulder he could reach a gentle squeeze.

‘There’s a lad. No harm done,’ he said quietly. ‘Do you want to tell me what’s really wrong, now?’

Paragon pulled back a little, trying to gather himself – and then it came spilling out of him. How he kept trying sleep but he always ended up dreaming of being locked away, how he would wake sobbing and how he hated waking anyone, how he had been flooded with fear in the Queen’s Garden that day in Buck, how the attacks had grown less frequent but persisted, how his head ached with little sleep and how his back ached from sleeping with every muscle tensed. Wintrow did not interrupt, just listened carefully until Paragon ran out of words.

‘You’ve had a hard few months,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s not something that’s going to leave you alone just because you’re back here. But I can promise you something.’

Paragon lifted his eyes to meet Wintrow’s, which were filled with certainty.

‘We can help, and it is going to get better,’ Wintrow said. Paragon swallowed and nodded, and as Wintrow went on to talk about ways to help him sleep, ways of thinking about things that frightened him, ways to ease the attacks, Paragon let his voice reach deep into his heart. This was the voice that had always, when Paragon was a child, picked him up and brushed him off and told him he was all right. That had soothed nightmares and taught lessons, as much as his mother. Wintrow said it would get better, and he could trust Wintrow.

~

Dutiful had been back only hours and he had been handed (or handed back) so many tasks and matters to deal with he felt as though a number of people had tried to sit on his head.

He leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the arms, sorting the various problems in his head. There had been a talk among the guards about a potential guard for Prince Prosper when he came of age; Dutiful could not help but feel strange that that day was no longer as far away as it had been. Two years until the boy was old enough to be a King-in-Waiting, _Eda_. Lady Tilth was due to visit with her family, he had arrived back just in time; they would remain for a few weeks and then leave again, he would have to make sure that there was appropriate company and entertainments. He could give the task of arranging that to Elliania, though he would have to host them personally of course. The boys had been there to greet him with their mother when Dutiful had arrived but had then been sent swiftly back to finish their lessons, so doubtless they would come running in here when they were free to see if he had brought them anything back, as promised. A few minutes of relief from Chade’s spidery handwriting then. But first he would have to push through it. He leaned forward again and looked it over. A new version of the agreement with the Mountain Kingdom, which he needed to look through. Chade had listed a number of texts he felt needed translation, retranslation, or more complex copy-work than the scribes in Buckkeep normally handled. He had added a note on the bottom of the sheet: _To be referred to a suitable translator as my lord commands_. Dutiful felt as though he could almost hear the disapproval, oozing out of the ink. So Chade was clearly still angry over Dutiful’s decisions for Fitz. That would need dealing with. And he had promised to visit Fitz in Withywoods regularly, and nothing had happened yet – he would have to press Chade a little for his excuse, and make arrangements. It would have to be after the Tilth nobility had left, and he would have to consider redistributing some tasks – His intended trips to Withywoods would take nine days each at least, travel included, and there should not be this much to deal with each time he returned.

He rolled his shoulders and picked up his pen again. Perhaps that was a good place to start. Prosper would need to be taking on some more tasks – he was a steady, reliable lad, perhaps he would be able to shift through some of Dutiful’s papers for him. Hm. Yes, that was a good idea. It would give Prosper a better understanding of the matters that were frequently put before the king. He would not act upon any of them himself, not yet, but he would learn to prioritise them for his father and he might do a better job of that than Dutiful ever felt he did.

So that would do for Prosper, and he would have to do something for Chade… he did not want to put too much on Prosper’s shoulders at once, and Integrity and Chade did not get along as well as they might. Elliania? Kettricken? His mother might do, but Dutiful still was not certain of her opinion of his decision. She had not questioned it after he had sent Fitz back to Withywoods with Bee, but had accepted it as a command from her king without a word. Dutiful sighed. He would have to talk to Chade himself. First, however, he would gather the texts the old man had listed. Then he could take them to Fitz and the fact that the work was being done might please Chade enough that… no, no, he had to talk to Chade before that, he needed his goodwill to explain why the King of the Six Duchies was disappearing from court for the second time, this time to his Skillmistress’s holdings without her. It was all tangled up in the same problem.

Dutiful felt certain that if he could only settle Fitz and Fitz’s relationship with the throne, he could deal with Chade easily enough. The old man loved Fitz, however much he nagged at him, and if he saw him happy due to Dutiful’s decision… but how long would it be before Dutiful succeeded? If he succeeded at all?

With a small sound of frustration, Dutiful leant over his papers again.

Blessedly, it was only a few minutes before he was interrupted; a knock on the door, and then Prosper and Teg were inside. Prosper was better at concealing his excitement than his brother, though he still seemed younger than Dutiful remembered being at that age. But then he had not had a younger brother – and by Prosper’s age he had already been promised in marriage. Dutiful shook the thoughts from his head.

‘It’s good of you two to come and see me,’ he said genially, leaning back in his chair and trying to conceal his amusement. Teg was fidgeting slightly.

‘Well, we only saw you briefly earlier, father,’ Prosper said seriously, ‘and we have missed you.’ Teg nodded. Dutiful smiled, and waited.

‘Did Prince Paragon get back to his mother all right?’ the younger prince said, as though he had not already been told just a few hours ago.

‘Yes, in Bingtown. Swift as you like.’ Dutiful considered pushing the two of them to continue making conversation until they actually asked him what they had been bought, but decided he had had enough of games for the day. He smiled wider, and opened the drawer in his desk.

‘All right, I did bring you back something each – presents from Bingtown,’ he said, ‘don’t get too excited, they’re only small.’

He gave Prosper one of the sets of inks that he had bought, and handed the set of tricks to Teg. The two of them thanked him and looked over their gifts – Teg was already opening the box and shuffling through the contents carefully. Among them, Dutiful knew, was something that had to be treated carefully. He spoke.

‘Teg, that knife in there, I know it’s very clever –’ he broke off for a moment, shaking his head in amusement as Teg found it. It was clever; the blade was not sharp at all, and slid into the handle noiselessly. Teg stabbed the chair with it, and then his own arm – and then his brother, who glared at him. Dutiful raised a hand.

‘All right, enough of that. Teg, you can keep the knife, but you are to paint the handle white so that no one is deceived – do you understand?’ He brought a touch of sternness into his voice on the last words, and although Teg looked disappointed to have his mischief curbed Dutiful knew that he would obey.

‘Yes father.’

When the two princes had gone, Dutiful dragged himself back to his papers, envying them their free time and looking forward to giving Elliania and his mother their gifts later.

~

Fitz stood in the main entrance to Withywoods, waiting with practiced patience. He resisted the temptation for a few minutes, and then gave in and glanced over at the Fool.

‘You’re shivering, Master Keppet,’ he said. ‘You really don’t need to wait here with me, I’m sure King Dutiful would understand…’

The Fool shot him a look, and Fitz said nothing more. He turned back to look up the main drive, waiting. Dutiful would arrive shortly, with as small a retinue as the monarch of the Six Duchies could manage. He intended to remain at Withywoods for three days; ostensibly, to both grant Master Keppet an honour (as they had not had time to meet at Buckkeep) and to look into some skill-related material that needed translating. The idea was that the work needed to be translated by Master Keppet, as he was an expert – and of course Master Keppet could not be expected to sacrifice his recovery for some translation work by staying at court where he had struggled to rest. After all, he was very appropriately residing in the holdings of Buckkeep’s Skillmistress; it made good sense to store some copies of the texts outside of Buckkeep, as such knowledge was of too great a value to risk losing… Fitz had carefully memorised the entire set of arguments, and he had to admit they were not too bad. A little shaky, and they would cease to hold if a more solid reason was not developed, but they would do initially.

Dutiful arrived a few minutes later, and for almost half an hour Withywoods was a hubbub of servants and guards settling in. The king was shown to his rooms (blue), and pronounced them excellent. Once everything had began to calm again, he was invited to the study with Master Keppet and Holder Tom.

Once they were there, with wine and a good fire, the Fool took his leave, slipping into the passages to return to his locked rooms. Dutiful and Fitz at alone in the study, quiet together, all platitudes and generic greetings spent.

Finally, Dutiful cleared his throat.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you, Fitz.’

Fitz nodded once in response. He had resolved to hold back for this meeting, at least until he knew what Dutiful wanted. The king met his eyes, both concern and determination in his expression. Then he gave a small smile.

‘I was rather hoping that you would have a question or more to ask me when I came here,’ he confessed. ‘I’m not sure I know where we should start, myself.’

Fitz watched him for a moment longer, studying his expression – and then recalled the boy prince he had taught, the one who had looked up to him so strangely. He looked away, and then back, and then shrugged.

‘I don’t know what you want,’ he said quietly. ‘You want something, but I don’t know what it is. If you want to tell me, you’ll tell me; if not, you won’t, and I won’t make a fool of myself pressing you over it.’

Dutiful looked contrite.

‘I’m sorry, Fitz,’ he said. ‘I know I’ve pushed a lot on you, with no real explanation.’ He sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair, frowning. ‘It would help, then, if I told you what I wanted?’

Fitz nodded, and steeled himself.

‘I want a cousin who is content with his life,’ Dutiful said simply. ‘I want a family that works well together because each person is acting of their own will. I want to do what I can to mend your relationship to the rest of the family, and to the throne. I want to ensure that you are treated better than you have been in the past. And I don’t want to lose you.’

It was the last thing that Fitz had expected. He looked away from his younger cousin and into the flames, running the words through his mind, considering their implications. He could hear, in Dutiful’s voice, both the clarity of thought of the king and well-intentioned sincerity of the boy.

‘I see,’ he said, otherwise at a loss for words. He had expected… what had he expected? A political plan, a play for power – perhaps something to do with Nettle or Chade. Or Bee.

‘I know you and Chade are fond of each other,’ Dutiful continued carefully after a pause. ‘I know you’ve known each other a long time. But the problem with Chade is that he – well, he still thinks in the same way of me that he did when I was a boy, and though the times and the situations have changed. He never seems to change with them. And…’ Dutiful paused and seemed to steel himself, ‘and I think he still treats you as though you are the same person you were when the two of you first met. I don’t think anyone stays the same – and I’ve been reading a lot of Chade’s old papers. I’m not sure that he was right about you to begin with.’

Fitz did not look up at him but kept his eyes on the fire. He had never considered Chade in this way. It fitted him oddly well, though Fitz was not so sure that Chade had never been right about him. He had always seemed to know Fitz’s thoughts before he had them, even then. Surely that was knowing someone, more than anything else was?

Dutiful shifted in his seat.

‘I don’t want to end your friendship,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve told Chade that you had no knowledge of my decision before he did, no influence on it. But you were sworn to a king, Fitz – and, legitimate or not, you’re family. I should be responsible for you and what you need, not Chade. Not that you’re not entirely responsible for yourself, but… oh, you know what I mean.’

‘You mean in terms of my relationship with the throne,’ Fitz said quietly, still looking at the fire.

‘Yes,’ Dutiful agreed. He hesitated. ‘Fitz, you used to trust us, but not anymore. You trusted Verity, I think, and mother and Chade once. But you don’t trust us anymore. That is our fault. And I hope to earn that trust back, but I can only do that if you let me.’ He gave a small smile. ‘You’re not obliged to – I’ve made very clear where you stand with us, and we’ll look after you and Lady Bee for as long as you both live regardless of trust. That was why it was important that we clarified everything. You do not owe me, or any Farseer, anything. But I would like to ask you for the chance to regain your trust.’

Fitz met his eyes then. His thoughts were many, busy and varied. Dutiful had grown older, and although he had always had something of a likeness to his mother about the eyes and brow he was now starting to take on a little of Shrewd’s look. This was not a deception, or part of a larger plan. He could see it in Dutiful’s open expression, and could feel the king willingly not closing his skill-walls. He had nothing to hide. When had he come to this conclusion? Had he truly surprised everyone with his decision when he had surprised Fitz? What had prompted any of this – Bee’s disappearance and rescue? The Fool’s return?

_You don’t trust us anymore._ Was that true? Fitz probed his own feelings; yes. Well, not exactly. He trusted Chade to be deceptive, and loyal only to the way he believed the country should be governed. He trusted Kettricken to adhere to her Mountain Kingdom beliefs of sacrifice; he trusted Dutiful to…

To what? To be himself. Dutiful was Farseer-stubborn, and he had lost his naivety young and swiftly; but he was also very much like his father. He valued the straight-forward, the good, and fairness. He saw the way the world was, and although he was more than willing to work with it and manipulate it as Chade had taught him, he also attached a value to facing it head-on and making it work around him. His decision made sense if you thought about him like that – he had seen a problem, and he had seen that Chade had never mended it, and so he had come at it another way. But was there even a problem?

Fitz was not entirely willing to admit to that. He had a good home and two healthy daughters, his mind insisted. More than he could ask for, more than he had ever earned. The pain of Molly’s absence seared him briefly, but for all its pain he was steadily growing used to it. After all, he reminded himself wearily, he had lost her once before and lived. This was so different, though, this sundering… he swallowed and forced himself back to thinking about Dutiful’s request. He thought he knew what kind of trust that Dutiful was hoping to gain from him. He had placed his in Verity, once; and Chade, also, once. What had he learned? That he was not greater than a country in their regard? Fitz almost snorted to himself in black amusement. No, though that was true it was hardly something he had not already known.

Could he have that trust in Dutiful? He could not see quite how. But he knew, suddenly, that he would like to. With every uncertainty that there had been… he had no desire to pledge away his freedom or his life, but to be able to relax in Dutiful’s company again would be a very good thing. Very well then.

‘I can’t promise you it will work,’ he said, his voice slightly gruffer than he had intended. ‘But you’re welcome to try.’


	9. Conversations Between Equals

‘Do the northerners really have no glass in their windows?’

Paragon laughed. He and Tullen were working, scrubbing clean the boards towards the aft. The dullest and most repetitive tasks always ended up with the ship’s boys.

‘The king’s home did,’ he answered thoughtfully, ‘Buckkeep. But they were all quite small windows. And I didn’t see much of the town, so I don’t know.’

‘Hm,’ Tullen sounded sceptical. She scooted around to scrub the next bit of deck without going out of a comfortable talking distance. As long as they worked hard, they were usually allowed to talk at this task.

‘It was cold, though,’ Paragon said, feeling as though his newly-gained knowledge of the Six Duchies, while it had interested Wintrow and his mother, was lacking something when it came to sailor’s stories.

‘You said, lots,’ Tullen answered teasingly. ‘Are they all barbarians up there?’

Paragon shook his head.

‘I don’t think there are real barbarians anywhere,’ he said decisively. ‘It’s just what people call people who live differently.’

Tullen appeared to consider this.

‘Maybe,’ she said, evidently unconvinced. ‘Did they… I dunno. Were they vicious fighters, like the Chalcedeans are?’

‘I didn’t see them fight,’ Paragon reminded her. ‘But they beat the Chalcedeans who took me, so they must have been pretty good. And the two princes have fighting training every other day – Teg only practices with wood sticks at the moment, but Prosper practices with a real sword. Well, a blunted one.’

‘Huh. You can fight.’

‘Mm. Ma taught me – but it’s a different kind of fighting. Ma taught me to defend myself in a deck fight, so not for very long. Pros and Teg are taught to fight in battles that could last all day.’ He hoped that the last part of that had not sounded uncertain. Riddle had assured him that that translation was correct, but Paragon could not quite imagine how big a battle it must be to take all day – surely a large battle would take as long as a small one, unless the two forces were very unbalanced? But then, there were larger spaces to consider; possibly there were pauses in the fighting, too. Paragon resolved to ask his mother or Wintrow at the next opportunity.

‘Queen Etta could fight anyone.’

Paragon nodded to that. He knew his mother’s reputation well enough. They said men all the way from Jamaillia to Chalced were afraid of her.

‘Their queen, isn’t she from even further North?’

Paragon paused a moment in his scrubbing to roll his shoulders, and then got back to it.

‘Queen Elliania is from the God Runes – the Outislands.’

‘What was she like?’

Paragon shrugged.

‘Nice. Her accent was a bit different, a bit stronger. And she seemed like the sort of person who does more listening than talking, you know? Like Dref.’ Dref was an older member of the crew.

Tullen nodded her understanding, and Paragon carried on.

‘King Dutiful said she was very wise, and that she always had good advice. I didn’t see her a lot, but she was kind when I did, asking how I was and if I needed anything. Everyone was like that, really.’

He moved around again and started the next bit of deck, while Tullen considered her next question.

‘What kind of food did they have?’ she asked. ‘Markel says that Northerners only eat fish, and they do strange things to it.’

Paragon smiled.

‘They have all sorts of food,’ he said. ‘Deer and soup and bread and fish and… I didn’t notice that anyone had done anything strange to it. At least, nothing people don’t do in Divvytown.’

Tullen laughed at that, and nodded her agreement. They worked for a while in silence. Then Tullen spoke.

‘Captain Vestrit spoke to me the other day,’ she said. ‘Called me to his study and everything.’

Paragon raised his eyebrows.

‘Oh?’ he asked, though he thought he knew what this would be about.

‘He said I’m old enough to make crewman, if I want to,’ she said. ‘He said he’d be happy for me to step up. He just wants to get the timing right.’ She looked at Paragon. ‘I think he wants you to be ship’s boy on your own for a bit, then he’ll move you up too.’

Paragon grinned, excitement bubbling in his chest. It was finally happening. Well, not right this moment, maybe not even for a few months. But it was going to happen. Tullen grinned back at him, clearly as pleased for both of them as Paragon was.

~

A year passed, slowly.

Withywoods settled into a way of functioning that irritated a minimum number of people, and for once Fitz was not among them. Bee had a tutor. She did mostly her own lessons, but in the same room as the other children. Fitz wondered if she had made any friends, but his daughter was reticent on the subject and he would not press her. Either she had or she hadn’t; he could not make them for her, so it was only his business if she decided that it was.

Dutiful made three visits that year, Nettle none. She wrote letters, to Bee and to Fitz, but they were light affairs, telling of recent events and weathers and wishing them well. Fitz would read them over and over in his study, wondering if there was a coldness to them or merely a shyness? Was Nettle angry, or somehow contrite?

He debated long and hard with himself as to whether or not to ask Dutiful when he came. In the end he decided not to – much like Bee, Nettle would share with him what she wanted when she chose to.

Dutiful’s visits were quiet affairs. After the first, which consisted more of the two of them discussing the memories they shared, Fitz found himself talking more often than not. Dutiful was curious, it seemed, about everything. He knew a great deal about Fitz’s life from Chade and his mother, but he seemed to want to hear it from Fitz. He always began with questions about Fitz’s skill-training, but then he would veer off on a tangent – what had it been like at Buckkeep then? What sort of work had he done? What friends had he had?

The first time he had done that, Fitz had given briefer and briefer answers until they were monosyllabic. Dutiful had taken the hint, and apologised, but they both went to their beds on bad terms.

The next morning, Fitz had begun their discussion by summing up his life until his skill-training had begun – not in the detail required of a report, for that would have taken hours, but he felt he had covered enough information to satisfy the young king.

Dutiful had sat there, in silence, and when Fitz had finished he had looked down at his knees.

‘Fitz, I –’

Fitz had cut him off.

‘Dutiful, what is it that you want?’ he asked. ‘I’ve spent over half my life documenting the rest of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if what you need to know isn’t written somewhere.’ He gestured around his study. ‘You can take it and read it, and then you don’t need to bother about travelling so often.’

‘And I would isolate you again.’  It was the last response that Fitz had expected.

The two of them had sat in silence again for some time, and then their conversation began as it had before as though there had been no dispute. Dutiful asked questions, Fitz answered them.

On his third visit, Dutiful had asked for more detail about the skill-training. What methods had Galen used? Who else had begun the training but not finished it? What caused Fitz to fail the final test?

Fitz answered these in reasonable detail. He did not like reliving the events, but he had been expecting this since Dutiful’s previous visit. He pushed past his discomforts with his old training. It was hard to know what Dutiful’s thoughts were when he had finished. Both of them kept their skill-walls up tightly, at Fitz’s request. He had offered no explanation for that, but Dutiful had accepted it as a condition of his visits without a word. The day he had departed, Bee had approached him silently and given him one of her carefully inked flowers. Dutiful had thanked her sincerely. Fitz had said nothing.

And now he was expecting a visit from both of them. Nettle was accompanying Dutiful this time. Fitz wondered if Dutiful had told her to close her walls while at Withywoods. He hoped so. He had had no skill contact with Nettle – or anyone – since he had left Buckkeep, preferring to ensure Bee’s comfort while they were together.

It seemed to be working. What was not working, most certainly, were his attempts to teach Bee to shield her mind. It was difficult; he had to explain everything in words, afraid that if he dropped his walls enough to show her he would overwhelm her.

So he would speak to Nettle and Dutiful about it.

Fitz was not looking forward to that meeting.

‘No joyous anticipation of our royal visit, Fitzy?’

Fitz’s head jerked up. The Fool had managed to slip into his study and close the door without being noticed. He gave him an irritated look, and the Fool poked out his tongue slightly in return. Giving anger at the Fool up as impractical in the long run, Fitz heaved a sigh and sat back in his chair.

‘Not particularly, no,’ he answered.

‘And why is that?’

The Fool meandered over to the fireplace and found the bottle of brandy on the mantel. He gave Fitz a questioning look.

‘Help yourself,’ Fitz said. ‘Perhaps I should share it out to Dutiful and Nettle. It might make things run a little smoother.’

The Fool shrugged, pouring himself a glass of brandy.

‘You seem very set on the idea that it can’t make it any worse,’ he remarked. ‘I don’t suppose you want to explain why that is?’

Fitz scowled at the opposite wall.

‘Not you too,’ he grumbled. ‘Dutiful asks enough questions, I don’t need any more.’

The Fool made no reply until he had seated himself opposite Fitz.

‘It would be nice,’ he said dryly, ‘if you could take a moment to parse the difference between inquiries with unknown purposes and a friend asking in concern.’

Fitz met his eyes, and conceded.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, that was unfair.’ He paused for a moment, thinking. _Eda damn it, I might as well._

‘Will you join us?’ he asked. ‘For our meeting, Nettle’s and Dutiful’s and mine.’

The Fool raised his eyebrows.

‘And I should do that because you have so impressed upon me the pleasurable event you’re expecting it to be?’

Fitz said nothing, just looked at him. Eventually the Fool threw his hands up.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But I shall have an explanation of why from you.’

Fitz looked down, and shrugged.

‘I think it will be… a difficult meeting,’ he said carefully. ‘I should like you there. You’re a good friend. And you have a talent for easing certain tensions, if you want to use it.’

When he looked up at the Fool, he was uncertain how to read his expression.

‘I’m flattered,’ the Fool said eventually, his tone half-teasing, half-sincere. ‘I shall do my best to ‘ease’ as much tension as I can find. Though if it is truly as bad as you seem to be anticipating,’ he added, ‘we shall need more brandy.’

Fitz gave a short laugh.

What was he anticipating? Nettle being angry. Angry that he had not shared information about her sister with her. Angry that he had not parented well, again. He gritted his teeth, tried to steady himself, and then stood.

‘They’ll be here soon,’ he said. ‘We should be ready for them.’

‘As you wish, Fitz.’

Fitz left the room, and the Fool followed him out.

~

‘Well. Thank you, as always, for having me.’ Dutiful shifted in his seat slightly, his tone light but his eyes flickering between Fitz and Nettle. He was not sure that he had been right in bringing Nettle to join them this quickly. She and Fitz were certainly uncomfortable around each other. The only person in the room who seemed relaxed was Keppet. Keppet was relaxed in his chair as though the air was not thick enough to spread on bread.

Fitz nodded in response to Dutiful’s thanks.

‘How was your journey?’ he asked. Dutiful glanced at Nettle. He had grown used to holding his skill-walls up at all times while at Withywoods, though he still wasn’t certain why Fitz had asked it of him – but it was very strange to sit beside Nettle and not be able to exchange thoughts and wisps of feeling.

‘Fine and smooth,’ she said politely.

‘Good, that’s good.’

Conversation ground to a halt. Dutiful thought he saw Keppet suppress an expression of amusement, but a moment later it was gone and he was no longer certain.

‘And how is life at Buckkeep?’

Keppet began simply, but over the following half an hour he had drawn all three of them into bearable conversation and the room felt a little more relaxed. Dutiful was grateful to him, and wondered if it had been his idea or Fitz’s that he join them.

Conversation lulled, and Fitz drew a steadying breath.

‘I’m glad you’re both here,’ he said to Nettle and Dutiful. ‘Not just because it’s good to see you, but because… I need to talk to you about something.’

Dutiful’s interest sharpened. So there was something more to this than simply their time apart. He let his eyes flick over to Nettle; she had raised her eyebrows slightly, but not otherwise reacted.

‘Go on,’ he said curiously.

Fitz looked down, as though considering his words; then he spoke, his voice tight.

‘I need to speak to you about Bee.’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘What about…’ Nettle began, but when Fitz still had not looked up she seemed to have guessed. ‘She’s Skilled, isn’t she?’ she asked, her voice as tight as Fitz’s. Dutiful had come to the same conclusion, and watched Fitz carefully, his thoughts whirring.

He did not nod. But he looked up.

‘I’m not sure,’ he said reluctantly. ‘If she is, it’s not like any Skill I’ve ever seen. I kept it quiet for now, because it was Bee’s secret – and she did not want to share it with anyone. I have her permission now.’ That last part seemed to forestall whatever it was that Nettle had been about to say – she fell silent.

Fitz heaved out a breath.

‘She can’t Skill out – can’t send a message to me, or make her thoughts go beyond the limits of her mind. But she’s incredibly open.’

‘Open how?’ Dutiful asked, carefully keeping his tone even. Fitz was trusting them with information, he did not want to ruin this. His cousin looked at him.

‘If your walls were not up she would know every thought that was running through your head,’ he said simply. ‘And those of us that are Skilled are… Bee says ‘louder’ than everyone else. It’s overwhelming for her.’

Dutiful considered this, running it through his mind against everything else he knew about Lady Bee. Certain things started to slot into place.

‘Is that why…’ he began, and then frowned, reconsidered his words, and tried again. ‘She doesn’t meet people’s eyes. She avoids being touched… both things that strengthen a Skill connection.’

Fitz was nodding, his expression calm but giving off a familiar impression of disappointment in himself.

‘It’s why she stayed close to Molly for so long,’ he said, his voice catching on her name. ‘Why she avoided me, and Nettle. It wasn’t until after Molly… that she had to start talking about it.’

Dutiful sat back in his chair. He tried to imagine what it would be like, if Prosper or Teg had been like Lady Bee – quiet and withdrawn, avoiding touch and meeting eyes, only to find out that he had been overwhelming them for years without ever realising it.

‘Can she put up her own walls? Control what she senses at all?’ Nettle asked. Dutiful was glad to hear no animosity or anger in her voice, only concern.

Fitz shook his head ruefully.

‘I’ve been trying to teach her,’ he confessed. ‘She can sense what I do when I close mine, but she can’t seem to mimic it. And I don’t dare let them down to make contact with her. I don’t have the fineness of control, and I’m not sure that it would be manageable for her even if I did.’

The four of them sat in silence for a few minutes. Dutiful considered the situation carefully, trying to be analytical rather than emotional. Lady Bee had the Skill, at least in some form – hardly surprising, as she was a Farseer. She would have inherited that trait from her father and her grandfather, just as Nettle had. But why would it be so different?

‘Nettle’s Skill is different from yours,’ Keppet said, voicing Dutiful’s thought. ‘Is it possible that there are simply various ways that the Skill manifests? Bee’s could be just one of them.’ His tone was carefully neutral, and Dutiful wondered what he was thinking.

Fitz did not answer, but looked at Nettle. The Skillmistress tilted her head, considering. Then she grimaced.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, sounding frustrated. ‘You could argue that there are as many different types of the Skill as there are types of people, I suppose. Yet most people Skill in a very similar way.’ She drummed her fingers briefly on the arm of the chair, and then stopped, looking at Fitz cautiously. ‘Could we speak to her? No skilling, of course – just talk to her, try and understand what it feels like at her end. It might be that I can reach her in dreaming, and we can work out a way of making her a boundary there, but I wouldn’t want to try it until I know more.’

Fitz hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then nodded.

‘Not tonight,’ he said firmly. ‘But tomorrow. I thought you might ask that. Just don’t…’ he stopped himself, and shook his head. ‘Never mind.’

‘Don’t what?’ Nettle asked. Dutiful watched the two of them and felt the awkwardness of their mutual caution even with his walls up.

Fitz hesitated again; and then looked straight at Nettle.

‘Don’t treat her like a child,’ he said. ‘And don’t treat her like a child you’re deigning to treat as an adult. It’s not just that it’s rude and unfair, but also she won’t help you or want to talk to you and I won’t make her.’ He closed his mouth completely and held it in a firm line, as though he was afraid he would say something more. Dutiful watched Nettle. _Don’t be offended. Fitz is right. It’s not personal._ For that moment, he was very glad he had his walls up.

‘I understand,’ Nettle nodded, and the room breathed.

‘Well,’ said Keppet after a moment. ‘I assume that was the main part of the conversation – how about we make the rest of it a little more relaxing?’ He gestured to the brandy on the table.

Fitz gave a short, startled laugh, and raised his eyebrows at Keppet.

‘Subtle,’ he said.

‘I know, it’s one of my many talents.’ Keppet smiled sweetly back at him, and this time it was Dutiful who laughed. He restrained himself from exchanging glances with Nettle – Fitz was sure to notice – but he wished he could get her opinion on what seemed to be between Fitz and Keppet. Most of the time it seemed like nothing more than old friendship, but just occasionally…

He made himself put those curiosities aside, and focused on the conversation.


	10. On Limits

Dutiful had thought that the hardest part was over once Bee had given Nettle one of her flowers and they had set off back to Buckkeep. He had been wrong.

Upon his next venture to Withywoods, it snowed. The days were cold, and the nights were colder. Nettle had joined him again – she and Fitz had been exchanging more letters, and seemed more relaxed around each other than Dutiful had seen them since before Lady Molly had died. He was glad of this. He had not, however, expected that it had had enough of an effect for Fitz to agree to their suggestion.

Fitz, though reluctant to go into great detail, was on polite request perfectly forthcoming about his life and his experiences with the Skill. Dutiful thought he could see Chade’s teachings in the way that Fitz would recite, cleanly and effectively, the facts and events of his childhood. Still, there was something amiss. Chade’s notes on Fitz had a long gap during his Skill-training; the old man had explained rather tersely that he had been forbidden by King Shrewd to involve himself with Fitz during this time. Dutiful had nodded, concealing his surprise that Chade had obeyed such an instruction to such a length.

What Chade’s notes did reveal, however, was an oddness: before the Skill-training, the young Fitz seemed to be a hard-working, apt student who showed some resistance to his place in the world but Chade considered that this was to be expected, ‘as children of his age are often likely to test the boundaries that surround them’, adding that Fitz’s pushes against authority appeared to be limited to the asking of questions.

After Skill-training, Chade’s notes changed. The records were more tightly focused on the Red Ship War, with Fitz a peripheral part, but nonetheless it was clear that either Chade’s opinion of him had changed, or Fitz was a very different person. Chade described him as ‘demanding and moping by turns’, and began to only mention him in the practical way that Chade described most others.

Fitz’s descriptions of his life, too, seemed not to match with this but were still odd. He moved from describing some events flatly, in the same way each time Dutiful asked and becoming frustrated when Dutiful tried to find out more, to describing other events with detail and clarity that explained his emotions without conceding to them. A lot of the flatness came out when he spoke of Skill-training, and he seemed to have little specifics of it. This was, of course, frustrating for their purposes, so Nettle had come up with a solution. She had tested the theory with one or two members of the Buckkeep coterie, and found that it worked well.

It involved bringing a group of three into one of Nettle’s Skill-dreams, and better accessing a person’s childhood memories. It required four people: the person whose dreams were to be accessed, in this case Fitz; the person who was managing the Skill-dream, Nettle; someone to act as a balance between them, holding everything in place – this would be Dutiful; and finally someone to be a well of strength as a last resort if matters got out of hand. That would be Riddle, though it seemed unlikely that he would be needed.

Dutiful had been certain that Fitz would hate the idea. He had agonised for some time over how to bring up the matter; after waiting for a while, Nettle had simply sent him a letter. There were still a number of measures in place to ensure the safety of Withywoods’ inhabitants, of course, so the letter – written in Elderling script so as to be undecipherable to the average letter-thief, and never mentioning anyone’s name – was couriered rather than send by message-bird. Fitz had taken some time to reply, but when he did it was by Skill-message to Dutiful. _Tell Nettle, yes._ In that brief contact he had given little by which Dutiful could judge his feelings on the matter, but upon their arrival in Withywoods he seemed reserved but not sullen.

They ate together, and discussed a variety of things. Bee was in turns both a silent observer and the life of the table, depending on the subject. She had grown perhaps slightly taller, but she still appeared very much younger than her age. Keppet, also, was an odd mix; Dutiful well-recalled Lord Golden’s sociable nature at Buckkeep so many years before, and it was odd to see the man withdraw into himself every so often as though there was no one else there. When Fitz or Bee noticed, their conversation would slow a little too; and sooner or later one of them would find a way to invite him back into conversation. The little household – no, Dutiful corrected himself, it was more than that – the little family that they had created between the three of them seemed to have done wonders for them all.

They had retreated late to their respective rooms, and Fitz, Nettle, Dutiful and Riddle reunited the following morning in Fitz’s study. Keppet performed his usual trick of joining them and then slipping out through the hidden corridor to his own chambers.

Once the door had closed and they were all settled Dutiful steeled himself, preparing to broach what they were about to attempt, when Fitz spoke.

‘I need you to understand,’ he said slowly, not looking up at them but focusing on his slow tidying of the few papers left on his desk, ‘that I do this… not because it is something I truly want to do. I do this because I have been asked, and because I hope that it will help future Skilled folk.’

Dutiful nodded.

‘Of course,’ he said. He could hear the concealed fear in Fitz’s voice, and tried to make his own reassuring. ‘This has been done twice before, and we’re confident that as a Skill-exercise in and of itself it should not be too difficult. You will, of course, be able to pull away from the connection at any time.’

Fitz just nodded, and then sighed.

‘How do we begin?’ he asked.

It did not take long. Nettle carefully drew both Fitz and Dutiful into her dreamscape, and encircled them all with Skill-walls so that this exercise would not effect Lady Bee.

The space she had created was a clearing, in sunlight, surrounded by trees. There were no animals to be seen, but Dutiful thought he could hear birdsong, and there was a pleasant breeze. Dutiful, Nettle and Fitz stood, several yards apart from each other, forming points of a triangle. It was a soothing environment, and the three of them took a few minutes to adjust to the balance required. Then, they were ready.

Dutiful sensed, as he had before with the trial runs at Buckkeep, that Nettle was communicating with Fitz. Fitz nodded, then looked at Dutiful.

‘What age?’ he asked. He was well in control of himself, but Dutiful felt again a frisson of a strange kind of fear from him. He drew his mind back to the question.

‘Go to… before you started Skill training,’ he said. ‘If you wouldn’t mind. A year or so before, so that we can settle things carefully.’

Fitz nodded, and conferred with Nettle again.

The world immediately around Fitz seemed to contract and flicker; and then, like a sigh, there was a boy standing there.

He could not have been older than twelve, and he neither smiled nor frowned; his face was a careful neutral. He blinked at Nettle and Dutiful, and waited to be spoken to.

Dutiful began.

‘Hello, Fitz,’ he said kindly. The boy gave him a hesitant smile. During this process, Fitz would remember primarily the events he had experienced at the age he was shown as. Later events were not forgotten, just… set aside. It was a delicate balancing act between forgetting the future enough to retreat to younger memories and recalling enough to trust and listen to both Dutiful and Nettle.

‘How old are you, Fitz?’ Dutiful asked.

‘Twelve.’

It was strange to look at him with no broken nose, and no scar down one side of his face. Dutiful kept up the conversation for a few minutes with banalities about life at Buckkeep, drawing Fitz out to talk a little and adjusting to the balance. He got the impression that Fitz at this age was reserved, but not too shy; naturally reticent, perhaps. When the conversation faded off, he sent a swift message to Nettle. _Forward._

They spoke to Fitz as he was just before his Skill-training began: nervous but curious, wary of Skillmaster Galen but intrigued by the notion of learning to Skill. There was more fear there than Dutiful had expected, but he soon understood. Chade had warned Fitz thoroughly about Galen, and Burrich had cautioned him about concealing his wit. Young Fitz was old for his age.

They skipped forward again, and Fitz described ruefully the conditions of the pre-Skill-training exercises. This was information that Dutiful had known about, and yet it was hard to hear – the Fitz they spoke to was thinner than before, and showing clearly the stubbornness he would later be known for.

Forward again, into the Skill-training itself.

‘Hello, Fitz. How’s the Skill-training going?’ Dutiful was careful to keep his voice low and gentle, knowing that it had been a hard time and might be difficult for Fitz to talk about. But Fitz smiled at him.

‘Can I tell you something?’ he asked. Dutiful smiled back, and nodded encouragingly. When Fitz spoke, it sounded like something inside of him was bursting out.

‘I’m good,’ he said. ‘Really good. I can get things in a few minutes, and the others take hours or more. I’m better at it than the others, even August – it’s _easy_.’ He was proud in the way a younger heart might be – not callously arrogant, but so excited by the prospect that he had to say it. Dutiful wondered if he had been this vocal about it at the time, but doubted it; this method for retrieving memories was effective because it provoked more communication than was normal for the person.

‘And what does Galen think of this?’ Dutiful asked. Fitz’s face did not fall, but it became still and determined.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘I’m good. He can’t do anything about that.’

The Skill communicated more than words. Dutiful could feel Fitz’s pride, his delight in being able to do something _well_ , something that wasn’t Chade’s secret arts or Burrich’s good but common-knowledge stable skills. This was special. And no one could take it away from him.

But someone had.

Dutiful had heard Fitz describe the Skill as a family curse; he had seen how much Elfbark Fitz took when he could, and remembered well Nettle scolding him on the matter some time ago. Fitz had stated that if Elfbark truly erased a person’s ability for the Skill then he did not see why he should not continue drinking it.

That had been a bitter argument, long ago before Fitz had married Lady Molly. One of the several he had had with Nettle. But the two of them seemed to have accepted their differences with reasonable grace – until Lady Molly had died.

Dutiful focused back on the young Fitz, considering; then sent another message to Nettle, and they moved forward again.

There was something odd about the transition this time, as though it had jerked slightly rather than flowed. This Fitz was still young – they had only gone forward about two weeks – but he could have been a completely different person.

His gaze was down, his eyes blank. The faint outline of bruising showed along his jaw and around one eye, and the corners of his mouth were turned slightly down. His expression, in fact, made him look much more like the Fitz that Dutiful was familiar with. The change in demeanour, even without a word spoken, was shocking.

‘Hello, Fitz,’ Dutiful said quietly. The boy in front of him nodded an acknowledgement the way a servant might a lord. Dutiful tried again.

‘Fitz, how are you feeling?’ he asked tentatively. Fitz shrugged one shoulder, once. His gaze stayed down.

‘Are you still doing Skill-lessons?’

Single nod.

‘How are they?’

One-shouldered shrug.

‘Fitz, please talk to me. Tell me what your Skill-lessons are like. How are they going?’ He said the last part encouragingly, remembering the pride from the previous Fitz.

Fitz raised his gaze a little but did not look at either Dutiful or Nettle.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s learning. August can read a book through his partner’s eyes, it’s very impressive.’ His voice was a toneless report.

‘And what about you?’ Dutiful asked.

Fitz shrugged again.

‘I’m not very good at the Skill,’ he said. ‘Galen says it’s being a bastard. He’s only teaching me because Shrewd told him to and Burrich made him. I can’t do anything the others can do.’

Dutiful’s mouth opened slightly, and he closed it again. He licked his lips, and formed a different question.

‘But you told us that you were very good at it. Better even than August.’

At this, a frown creased Fitz’s brow slightly and he looked up at Dutiful as though he could not understand him.

‘I wouldn’t have said that,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been good at it. Maybe I thought I was, once…’ his frown deepened, and his gaze wandered. ‘I’m not good enough to be Skilled. I’m sorry if I confused you.’

‘That’s all right, Fitz.’ Dutiful gathered himself, and asked, gently, ‘Fitz, where did you get those bruises from?’

‘Hm? Oh, I did something wrong in my lessons. Galen gave them to me.’

Dutiful nodded, recalling the event from Fitz’s telling of it.

‘When was that?’ he asked. ‘How long ago?’

Fitz frowned again.

‘Just over a week ago,’ he said. ‘Eleven days. Nearly two weeks, then, I suppose.’

Dutiful looked at Nettle, who raised her eyebrows. Her expression was solemn. He nodded.

‘Carefully,’ he breathed. Nettle concentrated, and the Fitz before them flickered. And continue to flicker. Dutiful looked at her again.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure.’ She shook her head and closed her eyes. There was a moment where Dutiful felt something strain against his senses; and then, there stood Fitz.

The bruises were gone, but Fitz’s dead-eyed stare was flecked with pain.

‘Fitz?’ Dutiful asked, concerned. ‘Fitz, are you all right?’

‘No.’ His voice had an odd echo to it.

‘We were talking about the Skill, Fitz,’ Dutiful said, reaching for a topic, feeling oddly as though he was standing on a slope though Nettle’s meadow was perfectly even.

‘I can’t Skill.’ The slight echo, again.

‘I thought you could?’

‘I can’t. I’m too stupid. Too undisciplined. I should be ashamed of myself.’ The words were spoken with feeling, with belief. Dutiful felt slightly sick as Fitz continued mercilessly. ‘Too stupid. Beyond disgust. Bastards shouldn’t be taught the skill, I’d be better off dead.’ The echo was growing louder.

‘Dutiful,’ Nettle whispered. Dutiful turned his head slightly but kept his eyes on Fitz.

‘What?’

‘Dutiful, that’s _not his_ _voice._ ’

‘There was no point in teaching me. Just misplaced pity. Should be dead. Should have died a long time ago.’ The echo was louder than Fitz’s voice, now, and Nettle was right – it wasn’t his. This voice was an older man, spitting condemnations. Dutiful’s horror grew as he realised who it was.

_Galen._

‘A Skill-command?’ he breathed to Nettle. She nodded, her face grey.

‘Wasted time, wasted breath, waste of life –’

A cold wind had picked up in the meadow, the words had a roaring, icy edge to them.

‘Break it off. Nettle, pull us out!’

‘I’m trying, he’s – it’s like he’s caught in it!’

Fitz had fallen to his knees, his mouth moving along with the words, his eyes unseeing. As Dutiful watched, new bruises formed on his face, around his eye, along his jaw.

A great grey shape in the wind seemed to rise over him, the words echoing around.

_Bastard, useless, waste of life, pathetic, dishonour, stupid, undisciplined, unworthy –_

‘Fitz! Fitz, it’s over, it’s done, you’re safe now, let us out!’ Dutiful shouted but his words were snatched away by the wind. He could feel the weight of Fitz’s pain swelling out through the dreamscape, the boy now a curled up figure in a grey storm. But what was –

Dutiful squinted. A figure all in black and white was approaching, walking calmly through the wind until they could crouch down and place their hand on Fitz’s shoulder.

The wind dropped. The grey shape disappeared. Young Fitz was curled up on the ground, sobbing. The black and white figure looked up.

‘Time to leave,’ Keppet said, his face like snow.

Nettle pulled them all back to the world.

Dutiful took a moment to steady himself in the strange darkness of Fitz’s study. Blinking to adjust to the light, he pushed himself up out of his chair. Fitz was on the floor behind his desk, curled up as his younger self had been – and Keppet stood over him. Keppet spoke before Dutiful could.

‘You should leave.’

‘But I –’ Dutiful began, but he stopped when Keppet looked up at him, his face furious.

‘Get out.’ Never had he heard Keppet speak with such ferocity. Unthinking, Dutiful turned and walked straight to the door. Riddle and Nettle came behind him. They stopped together, out in the corridor once the door to the study had swung shut.

‘We should go back to our rooms,’ Dutiful said quietly, still breathing slightly faster than he needed to.

The other two murmured in agreement and did so, not looking at each other once.

~

‘It’s all right, you’re safe now, it’s over. Hush, Fitz, my Fitz, my Keppet…’

Beloved barely knew the words as they tripped past their tongue, kneeling beside Fitz on the floor. He was not crying, but he was shaking horribly, his eyes tightly shut, his fists clenched.

~

Dinner that evening was a quiet affair. Lady Bee, Dutiful, Keppet, Riddle and Nettle ate in near silence aside from the occasional minor comment. Keppet had given Fitz’s apologies upon joining them, explaining that Holder Tom had a terrible migraine and felt unable to join them. The others had nodded silently. Lady Bee did not speak to anyone except Keppet, and Dutiful was dully surprised to see how much fury could radiate from someone who never spoke and never met your eyes.

Keppet disappeared once dinner was over, no doubt to return to Fitz’s side. Lady Bee lingered, perhaps out of formality – Dutiful personally suspected she had been asked to by Keppet – but she did not speak to anyone, sipping the small amount of honey-wine she had been permitted and watching the fire and somehow quelling all other talk save for the token pleasantries they exchanged while the servants could be listening. When a suitable amount of time had elapsed, all four of them retreated to their own rooms.

Dutiful lay in his bed awake until it was long after midnight. He stared up at the ceiling. He had ruined everything, of that he was certain. He had meant to gain Fitz’s trust, and what had he done instead? Put Fitz through the terror of that recall for his own thrice-damned curiosity. Destroyed any chance he had of regaining the man’s trust, and treated Fitz as badly as he had accused those before him of doing.

He slept little that night. He tried to consider ways in which the matter might be mended, but could think of none – he felt hopeless, and hated it. Dawn came late, but he barely noticed until there was a polite knock on the door. A servant, he expected, come to check on their royal visitor who was still abed at this hour. He grimaced, and pulled himself into a robe and ran a pointless hand through his hair before bidding them enter.

It was Keppet. He spoke without preamble.

‘Lady Nettle will host the rest of your stay. Unfortunately Holder Tom will remain too unwell to see you, though I expect he will manage a farewell before you leave. You will not bother him in any way.’ The words were flat, quashing even the idea of dispute.

Dutiful opened his mouth, and then closed it again and just nodded. Keppet looked at him a moment longer, and then left as abruptly as he had entered.

~

The day was miserable. They spent most of the morning in the drawing room. It was snowing again outside, but when it stopped Nettle took Dutiful around the gardens, claiming they looked oddly lovely in the snows. Dutiful walked over the snow-covered gravel, breathing the clear, crisp air, and felt slightly better. No less guilt-ridden, but at least his head felt a little clearer. He wondered how Fitz was coping. Keppet had apparently delivered the same message to both Nettle and Riddle, before retreating again; he and Lady Bee were nowhere to be seen for the rest of the day. Lady Bee had given the excuse of her lessons at breakfast, and Keppet had given no excuse at all.

Again that evening they dined in near-silence before taking each other’s company in a sitting room. Neither Lady Bee nor Master Keppet joined them. Even the servants seemed stiffly formal with the, though Dutiful suspected that was simply the mood of the evening.

‘What do we do?’

Dutiful looked up. They had been sat by the fire for almost an hour before Nettle had spoken. She sounded younger than she usually did. He had no answer for her.

‘I don’t know,’ he confessed quietly, staring at the fire.

Nettle stood and left the room.

Riddle and Dutiful remained for another few minutes, and then Dutiful resigned himself to another bad night and stood to leave. As he did so, Keppet slipped in. The man moved so quietly it was almost uncanny.

‘Master Keppet, I had not thought to see you at this hour,’ Dutiful heard himself say, falling back on familiar courtesies. Keppet did not smile, but pressed his lips together briefly, his expression reluctant.

‘If you wished to call on Holder Tom tomorrow, he would see you,’ he said stiffly, and Dutiful wondered if he and Fitz had argued.

‘Thank you,’ Dutiful said, genuinely. He had no idea what to say to Fitz, but at least he would be able to apologise as best he could, and perhaps ask if there was anything he could do.

‘It may change,’ Keppet warned him. ‘Headaches like this are most unpredictable.’

Dutiful nodded. Keppet left again; when Dutiful and Riddle stepped out into the corridor a few seconds later, he was nowhere to be seen.

~

It turned out that Dutiful did not see Fitz the next day, or at all before he left; however, Nettle did. She was quiet and grave-faced on their journey back to Buckkeep and would not reveal what she and Fitz had discussed. She had, however, rather stiffly handed Dutiful some of Fitz’s translation work. He thanked her and she nodded in response, watching the landscape they passed.

It was a long journey back.


End file.
